THE  GBEAT 
WET  WAY 


X 


THE  GREAT  WET  WAY 


"The  happy  traveller  bursts  into  tears" 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


By 

Alan  Dale 


Illustrated  by 

H.  B.  Martin 


New  York 

Dodd,  Mead  and  Company 
1910 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
DODD,   MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

Published,  March,  IQOQ 


To  My  Daughter 
DAISY 


2135052 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  THE  QUEER  THINGS  WE  SEE     ....  i 

II  THE   ROOM-MATE .,     .  22 

III  PARTAKING  OF  NOURISHMENT     ....  43 

IV  WHO'S  WHO  ON  BOARD 63 

V  MAL  DE  MER 85 

VI  CHILDREN  ON  BOARD 106 

VII  FLIRTATIONS 130 

VIII  PATRIOTISM         152 

IX  TIPPING 174 

X  NERVOUS  PASSENGERS         197 

XI  THE  CONCERT 219 

XII  THE  CUSTOM  HOUSE         242 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  THE   HAPPY  TRAVELLER   BURSTS   INTO  TEARS  " 

Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"You  FIND  A  DOZEN  PEOPLE  STANDING  BEHIND 

You"      .......       18 

"  IT  SEEMED  LIKE  A  DENSE  CROWD  IN  THE  SUB- 
WAY ".......       30 

"  '  I  TELL  You,  OLD  CHAP,  You  Miss  GREEN  CORN 

IN   LONDON    AND   PARIS  ' '         .         .         .46 
"  PEOPLE  GOT  UP,  AND  WALKED  PAST  THEM  "      .       70 
"  HE    HAS   CROSSED  THE   ATLANTIC   FORTY-FOUR 

TIMES  "  ......       90 

"  FATHER  AND  MOTHER  SEE  THAT  SHE  is  FLIRT- 
ING "       .         .         .         ...  •     136 

"  THE  TINSEL  PATRIOT  " j68 

"  '  OH,  THAT  WE  Two  WERE  MAYING  '  "    .         .     226 
"  APPEARS  TO  HAVE  TAKEN  A  GREAT  FANCY  TO  THE 

CUSTOM  HOUSE  INSPECTOR  "  .         .     254 


APOLOGETICALLY 

Once  upon  a  time,  many,  many  years  ago,  the  man 
who  "  went  to  Europe  "  was  looked  upon  as  some- 
what remarkable,  and  even  heroic.  Shoals  of  news- 
paper reporters  met  the  incoming  steamers,  and  eag- 
erly interviewed  the  intrepid  travellers,  asking  them 
all  sorts  of  leading  questions,  and  chronicling  the 
answers  with  avid  accuracy. 

Tempora  mutantur.  To-day,  everybody  goes  to 
Europe.  The  steamers  are  crowded,  as  for  a  picnic. 
The  townships  and  the  villages  of  the  far  west  sup- 
ply a  goodly  percentage  of  the  passengers.  It  is 
neither  remarkable  nor  heroic  to  go  to  Europe  to-day. 
In  fact,  it  is  rather  provincial.  Exclusive  people  even 
hesitate  before  admitting  that  they  are  going  abroad. 
They  select  a  time  that  is  unpopular  with  the  mass  of 
tourists,  and  satisfy  their  consciences  in  that  way. 
Newspaper  reporters  no  longer  flock  to  meet  the  in- 
coming steamers.  It  would  keep  them  too  busy. 
Moreover,  the  views  of  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  are 
not  startling. 

The  trip  to  Europe,  however,  with  its  characteris- 
tics of  to-day,  is  vastly  amusing  to  those  blessed  or 
cursed  with  a  sense  of  humour.  The  close  association, 
the  enforced  intimacy  with  what  the  English  call 


Apologetically 

*4  trippers  "  and  what  we  call  "  tourists,"  must  be 
strenuously  interesting  to  those  who  enjoy  the  study 
of  human  nature. 

This  book  is  not  serious.  It  is  the  result  of  some 
fifty  trips  across  the  Atlantic,  on  all  kinds  of  steamers, 
and  with  all  sorts  of  people.  I  have  tried  to  discuss 
every  conceivable  phase  of  life  on  the  big  liner,  which 
some  travellers  consider  a  lost  week,  and  which  I 
regard  as  a  seven  days'  joy;  in  fact,  a  picnic.  My  ob- 
ject has  been  simply  to  amuse  those  who  have  crossed, 
those  who  will  cross,  and  the  friends  of  those  who 
have  crossed  and  who  will  cross.  This  is  a  "  tall 
order,"  don't  you  think?  This  is  an  appeal  to  a  tre- 
mendous public.  It  is,  in  fact,  an  overwhelming 
appeal.  Nor  must  I  forget  the  members  of  the 
various  steamship  companies. 

If  their  sense  of  humour  responds,  then  indeed 
shall  I  consider  myself  amply  repaid. 

ALAN  DALE. 

NEW  YORK,  1909. 


THE  QUEER   THINGS  WE  SEE 


H ! "  you  sigh,  in  ex- 
quisite relief,  as  the 
steamer  slowly  sails  from 
port,  and  you  see  the 
last  of  everything  and 
everybody,  "  now  for  a 
week  of  delightfully  re- 
cuperative rest,  with 
nothing  to  worry  you, 
nobody  to  interfere  with 
you,  and — best  of  all 
• — nothing  to  do.  Now 
for  that  enviable  period  of  inertia — a  delicious 
dream  of  dolce  far  niente." 

You  firmly  believe  that  you  are  going  to  "  dolce- 
far-nient"  but  you  never  do.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Accom- 
panying you  are  fully  as  many  people  as  in  your  most 
crowded  moments  you  ever  meet  on  land.  And 
these  people  are  absolutely  bent  on  finding  something 
— generally  anything — to  do,  and  routing  you  from 
your  pleasurable  sloth  to  help  them  do  it.  Many  a 
time  have  I  sworn,  as  I  tucked  my  steamer-rug  cosily 


2  The  Great  Wet  Way 

around  my  feet,  adjusted  my  chair  at  a  comfortable 
angle,  and  armed  myself  with  a  coveted  book,  that 
no  power  on  sea,  other  than  a  fire  or  a  ship- 
wreck, should  dislodge  me.  Yet  I  have  never  suc- 
ceeded in  discomfiting  the  fiends  whose  business  it  is 
to  provide  me,  willy-nilly,  with  something  to  do. 
I  have  settled  myself  in  a  particularly  entrancing 


*/*»Z?SM» 


lethargy,  and  am  determined  to  "  do  myself  good  "  at 
all  costs,  when  the  usual  thing  happens.  An  excited 
passenger  rushes  up  to  me,  stands  in  front  of  me, 
and  begins :  "  Come  to  the  other  side  of  the  ship. 
Quick.  For  goodness  sake,  don't  miss  it.  Every- 
body's there,  and  you'll  be  sorry  if  you  don't  come. 
Put  that  silly  old  book  away,  and  come  on." 
I  sigh  resignedly,  unpick  my  steamer-rug  from  my 


The  Queer  Things  We  See  3 

resistless  limbs,  drop  my  book,  and  accept  the  vivid 
hand  that  the  excited  passenger  offers.  He  helps 
me  up,  and  drags  me  with  him  to  the  other  side  of 
the  ship,  where  the  wind  is  blowing  a  gale,  and  it  is 
hateful.  All  the  passengers  are  there,  in  agitated 
groups.  Emotion  is  in  the  air,  wind-tossed.  There 
seems  to  be  a  great  deal  doing.  Men  and  women  are 
talking  in  all  kinds  of  voice;  they  are  armed  with 
opera-glasses,  field-glasses,  and  telescopes.  It  is  a 
busy  moment. 

"  Look !  "  cries  my  chaperon.  "  Look.  See  where 
I'm  pointing?  Follow  my  finger.  There.  You've 
got  it.  You  must  see  it." 

But  I  don't.  I  see  nothing.  There  is  plenty  of 
water,  and  there  is  plenty  of  sky,  but  not  more  than 
usual  of  either.  There  are  also  many  clouds.  I  see 
all  that,  and  nothing  more,  and  I  say  so. 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  exclaims  testily.  "  Here,  take 
my  glasses,  and  look  straight  ahead  of  you — as 
straight  as  you  can.  Now  do  you  see?  " 

Now  I  see.  I  see  a  black  speck  on  the  horizon.  I 
hate  black  specks.  A  year  ago  I  saw  so  many  of 
them  that  I  went  to  a  doctor,  and  he  told  me  that 
it  was  indigestion.  I  had  to  take  pepsin  after  meals 
for  three  months.  And  now  this  idiot  appears  to  be 
intensely  rejoiced  because  he  has  forced  me  to  per- 
ceive an  inoffensive  black  speck  on  the  horizon. 

"  It  is  a  boat!  "  he  cries  joyously.  "  There  is  no 
doubt  about  it  at  all.  If  you  look  carefully — take 


4  The  Great  Wet  Way 

your  time,  old  chap — you'll  see  the  smoke.  Yes,  it's 
a  boat — a  boat — a  boat!  " 

This  passenger  is  a  perfectly  sane,  level-headed 
business  man.  He  is  going  to  Constantinople  to  sell 
sausage  cases — surely  a  pleasing  and  romantic  mis- 
sion. Yet  he  is  all  worked  up,  because  he  thinks  he 
sees  a  boat  on  the  horizon.  I  am  amazed.  If  he 
could  see  a  Brooklyn  trolley-car,  a  Strand  omnibus, 
or  a  touring  automobile,  I  should  be  able  to  under- 
stand his  excitement.  But  a  boat!  One  expects  to 
see  boats,  for  ours  is  not  the  only  vessel  on  the  At- 
lantic Ocean.  There  are  scores  of  others.  I  look  at 
him,  and  marvel  at  his  agitation.  Everybody  else  is 
equally  agitated.  One  would  think  that  a  boat  was 
the  most  extraordinary  and  dramatic  thing  that  had 
ever  happened.  On  land,  in  a  subway  train,  nobody 
betrays  any  very  intense  emotion  when  another 
train  passes.  One  would  be  more  surprised  to  see  a 
flock  of  sheep  or  a  herd  of  cows. 

"  I  asked  the  Captain  about  it,"  he  goes  on,  and 
I  do  not  doubt  him.  The  poor  Captain  is  there  to 
be  asked  asinine  questions  all  day  long.  "  The  Cap- 
tain says  it's  a  tramp.  Only  a  tramp.  It  is  probably 
going  to  Nova  Scotia.  The  Captain  couldn't  say 
for  certain,  but  later  on  he  will  be  quite  sure. 
Thanks,  I'll  take  my  glasses.  I  don't  want  to  miss 
anything." 

Do  not  imagine  that  you  will  ever  be  allowed  to 
miss  any  passing  boats.  If  there  are  any  going,  you 


The  Queer  Things  We  See 

will  be  forced  to  watch  them 
until  they  fade  from  sight.  A 
hundred  passengers  will  dog 
your  footsteps,  and  worry  you, 
until,  in  sheer  desperation,  you 
resign  yourself  to  the  inevi- 
table. 

The  sight  of  one  poor  little 
tramp  in  mid-ocean  is,  how- 
ever, as  nothing  compared 
with  another  attraction  which 
plunges  the  passengers  into  a 
seething  vortex  of  fervour.  It  never  fails.  It  is  per- 
sistent, and  it  is  reliable.  I  was  napping  in  my  state- 
room when  this  event  occurred  last  year.  A  loud 
knock  at  my  door  awakened  me,  and  in  came  my 
room-mate  all  wrought  up.  He  was  beside  himself, 
and  I  wished  that  he  had  stayed  there,  instead  of 
putting  himself  beside  me. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  furious  if  you  missed  it," 
he  said  palpitatingly,  "  you've  just  time  to  get  up  on 
deck.  I  can't  wait.  Come  on." 

Off  he  rushed.  Although  I  had  "  presentiments," 
I  felt  that  I  was  compelled  to  follow  him.  That  is 
the  trouble.  One  is  afraid  not  to  investigate  the 
ship's  little  excitements.  They  might  be  big  ones, 
though  they  never  are.  On  deck,  I  found  a  chaotic 
assemblage  of  passengers,  jostling  each  other  for 
places  at  the  ship's  side.  Boys  had  clambered  into 


6  The  Great  Wet  Way 

the  lifeboats,  stout  matrons  stood  on  steamer  chairs, 
Wall  Street  magnates  elbowed  themselves  to  the  rail. 
Even  the  clergy  had  lost  their  serenity  and  poise.  A 


Roman  Catholic  priest  leaned  so  far  over  the  rail 
that  he  appeared  to  be  contemplating  suicide. 

"  See  them !  "  cried  the  priest.  "  Are  they  not  cun- 
ning? It's  a  shoal  of  porpoises,  sure  enough.  Look 
at  them,  leaping  through  the  water." 

I  am  willing  to  swear  that  they  were  the  very  same 
porpoises  that  I  had  seen  thirty  times  before.  In 


The  Queer  Things  We  See  7 

fact,  I  recognised  one  very  fat  porpoise  by  the  twinkle 
in  his  eye.  All  that  these  porpoises  do,  for  a  living, 
is  to  describe  semicircles  in  the  water.  They  do  this 
most  energetically  for  five  minutes,  and  seem  to  enjoy 
it.  Then  they  get  sick  of  it,  and  cease  to  follow  us.  I 
know  so  completely  what  transatlantic  passengers 
think  of  porpoises,  that  I  always  wonder  what  the 
porpoises  think  of  transatlantic  passengers.  I  can 
imagine  that  fat  porpoise  with  the  twinkling  eye  say- 
ing to  his  mate :  "  There  they  are  again — those 
floating  hayseeds.  Look  at  them — one  more  foolish 
than  the  other.  Let's  give  them  the  shake.  Come  on, 
mommer,  into  the  quiet  and  unspoiled  sea."  The 
porpoises  make  the  hit  of  their  gay  young  fishy  lives 
as  they  do  their  little  turn.  It  is  a  free  show.  It  is 
the  only  free  thing  on  the  ship.  No  steamship  com- 
pany has  yet  decided  to  charge  for  the  porpoise  view. 
This  will  undoubtedly  come  later.  I  shall  not  sub- 
scribe. I  shall  buy  a  ticket  without  porpoises.  These 
fish  never  do  anything  new.  They  are  utterly  lack- 
ing in  originality. 

But  the  passengers  were  all  agog.  They  were 
making  notes  in  their  diaries.  (There  are  hundreds 
of  miserable  wretches  on  shore  to  whom  those  diaries 
will  be  read.)  I  watched  the  diary  fiends.  One 
wrote:  "  Aug.  16.  Seen  a  shoal  of  porpoises."  An- 
other jotted  down  more  elegantly:  "Aug.  16.  Por- 
poises observed  in  latitude  — ,  longitude  — ."  A 
third,  of  a  more  literary  persuasion,  began:  "We 


8  The  Great  Wet  Way 

were  all  resting  comfortably  after  lunch,  when  what 
should  we  see  but  some  jolly,  lovely  little  fish  that 
are  known  as ." 

He  looked  up  at  me,  and  asked  ingenuously: 
"  What  is  the  plural  of  '  porpoise '  ?  " 

I  told  him  that  I  had  every  reason  to  believe  that 
the  plural  was  quite  the  same  this  year  as  last — simply 
"  porpoises." 

"  Thank  you  so  much,"  he  said,  quite  unabashed. 
"  I  thought  it  was  '  porpi.'  Porpus — porpi.  Very 
foolish  of  me." 

To  which  I  replied  "  Not  at  all "  or  "  Don't  men- 
tion it "  or  "  It's  a  pleasure  " — or  some  feeble  phrase 
of  that  ilk.  The  porpoises  seemed  to  exert  a  benign 
influence  on  the  ship.  People  who  had  never  spoken 
to  each  other  before,  broke  the  ice,  and  grew  chatty. 
Several  haughty  folks  came  down  from  their  perches, 
and  talked  quite  genially,  and  un-uppishly.  In  fact, 
we  were  as  one  big  family — not  that  big  families  are 
especially  amiable,  for  they  usually  are  not.  We  were 
as  one  big  family  that  had  just  "  made  up  "  after  a 
period  of  the  protracted  bicker  that  is  so  popular 
with  big  families  when  they  are  respectable  and  dis- 
agreeable. 

On  land,  you  would  refuse  to  cross  the  street  to 
look  at  a  shoal  of  porpoises  if  they  were  offered  you 
on  the  other  side.  At  sea,  you  are  supposed  to  be 
hopelessly  addicted  to  the  very  things  that  you  de- 
spise when  you  are  not  there.  I  have  met  these  por- 


The  Queer  Things  We  See 

poise  fiends,  rushing  in  contemptu- 
ous haste  through  the  magnificent 
aquarium  at  Naples,  because 
Naples  is  not  in  mid-ocean,  and  its 
wonders  are  discounted  when  they 
can  be  gazed  at  comfortably.  I 
have  encountered  porpoise  enthusi- 
asts who  live  in  New  York,  but 
have  never  visited  Manhattan's 
aquarium.  It  is  just  a  sort  of  sea- 
mania.  There  are  many  sea 
manias.  The  salt  water  seems  to 
bring  them  out,  and  I  daresay  that 
they  are  better  out  than  in.  They  are  nearly  all  ex- 
traordinary, and  peculiar  to  the  transatlantic  cross- 
ing. They  flourish  luxuriantly  during  the  trip,  and 
are  as  dead  as  a  doornail,  hopelessly  past  resuscita- 
tion, as  soon  as  land  is  reached.  Then  they  are 
quickly  forgotten.  People  hate  to  have  the  queer 
things  they  do  at  sea  thrown  in  their  face  when  they 
are  planted  on  prosaic  dry  land.  The  logic  of  their 
nature  quietly  re-asserts  itself.  It  has  been  but  tem- 
porarily displaced. 

There  is  one  particular  steamship  occupation  for 
which  it  is  quite  impossible  to  furnish  an  adequate 
explanation.  I  refer  to  the  rabid  and  energetic  col- 
lection of  autographs — autographs  of  nobodies — 
that  we  all  feel  impelled  to  make.  I  always  find  my- 
«elf  running  after  Mr.  Jones  of  Kalamazoo,  or  Mr. 


io  The  Great  Wet  Way 

Smith  of  Prairie  du  Chien,  Wis.,  and  simply  begging 
him  for  his  autograph.  I  eagerly  hand  him  my  pas- 
senger list,  or  an  autograph  book  for  him  to  sign. 
Now  I  have  never  heard  before  of  either  Mr.  Jones, 
or  Mr.  Smith,  and  sincerely  hope  never  to  hear  of 
him  again.  Yet  I  pester  such  people  for  their  auto- 
graphs, and  am  not  happy  until  I  get  them.  I  don't 
know  why.  It  is  a  sea  mania. 

You  find  yourself  cornering  dreadful  people,  and 
absolutely  holding  them  up  for  their  autographs, 
which  you  will  immediately  throw  away  as  soon  as 
you  land.  It  is  a  most  remarkable  thing.  You  are 
perfectly  serious  about  it;  you  make  the  demand  dif- 
fidently; you  stand  there  obsequiously  while  the  auto- 
graph is  written,  and  you  walk  away  with  it  triumph- 
antly with  a  sort  of  "  I-have-eaten-the-canary  "  ex- 
pression on  your  face. 

These  people  are  perfect  strangers  to  you.  You 
have  never  spoken  to  them  before  in  your  life.  If 
you  met  them  subsequently  in  the  street,  you  would 
probably  fail  to  recognise  them.  But  you  must  have 
their  autographs.  There  is  a  something,  and  I  have 
no  idea  what  it  is,  that  prompts  you  to  collect  worth- 
less autographs.  I  am  an  anti-autograph  fiend  on  dry 
land,  and  have  no  use  for  the  finest  specimen  going, 
unless  it  be  appended  to  a  fat  and  happy  cheque.  I 
do  not  consider  an  autograph  characteristic  of  the 
man  who  writes  it.  It  is  usually  a  splurge  in  a  hand- 
writing that  he  uses  for  no  other  purpose.  It  tells 


The  Queer  Things  We  See 


11 


you  nothing.  If  I  ad- 
mire an  author,  or  a  play- 
wright, I  should  greatly 
cherish  a  page  of  his  manu- 
script, which  would  be  as- 
suredly characteristic.  I 
do  not  care  a  hang  for 
his  autograph  or  for  a 
cart-load  of  any  auto- 
graphs. 

Yet  on  the  ship,  I  am 
hustling  around,  beseech- 
ing people  to  sign  my  menu,  and  doing  it  as  thought 
my  very  life  depended  on  the  success  of  the  quest.  1^ 
am  most  generous  with  my  own  autograph,  and  hand 
it  out  right  and  left.  Anybody  can  have  it.  There 
are  boys  and  girls  on  board  who  are  hopeless  victims 
of  this  curious  mania.  There  are  old  women  who 
are  badly  bitten.  Some  of  them  make  you  write  your 
name  in  pencil  on  afternoon-tea  cloths,  or  doilies,  and 
then  work  in  silk  over  your  signature.  Beautiful 
thought  I 

A  busy  young  girl  on  a  recent  return  trip  wore  a 
hat  all  covered  with  the  autographs  of  passengers 
with  whom  she  had  sailed  from  New  York.  It  was 
a  Panama  hat,  and  as  she  walked  round  and  round 
the  deck,  you  could  read  such  names  as :  "  Moe 
Levy,"  "  Archibald  Einstein,"  "  Percy  Pruneface," 
"Fay  Dinkelspiel"  and  "  Katusha  Isaacs."  She 


12 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


never  wore  any  other  hat.  She  was  awfully  proud 
of  it.  When  you  saw  the  hat  in  the  distance,  the 
blur  of  signatures  on  the  straw  ground  looked  quite 
disreputable.  The  hat  had  the  appearance  of  being 
battered  and  dirty.  As  it  grew  nearer  you  read 
gradually:  "  Moe  Levy,"  "  Archibald  Einstein,"  etc., 
and  the  signatures  got  on  your  nerves.  I  often  found 
myself  wondering  what  Moe  Levy,  Archibald  Ein- 
stein, Percy  Pruneface,  and  the  others  were  doing  at 
that  particular  moment  and  where  they  were !  There 
was  even  a  kind  of  maudlin  pathos  about  these  reflec- 
tions— the  sort  of  pathos  that  is  usually  the  result 
of  persistent  libation.  Now,  I  ask  you  if  that 
girl,  who  seemed  to  be  a  sensible,  practical  young 
person,  would  dare  to  walk  down  Broadway  or 

Fifth  Avenue  wearing 
that  hideous  autograph 
hat,  which  was  as  unbe- 
coming as  it  was  ab- 
normal ?  She  would  prob- 
ably be  followed  by  a 
howling  and  derisive  mob 
of  chaotic  small  boys. 
Yet  on  board  ship  she 
was  unmolested.  After 
the  first  few  days  nobody 
noticed  the  autograph 
hat.  It  had  stamped  its 

r 

eccentricity  on  the  ship. 


The  Queer  Things  We  See  13 

People  write  their  names  in  Tennyson  or  Long- 
fellow "  birthday  books  "  by  the  side  of  some  lovely 
poetic  quotation.  For  instance  in  a  space  allotted 
to  May  25,  you  read: 

With  promise  of  a  morn  as  fair 
And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  glowing  powers 
The  reverence  and  the  silver  hair. 


This  delightful  verse  graces  the  birthday  of 
"  Sylvia  Potzenheimer  "  or  "  Marian  Schlachski," 
and  "  gems  "  from  many  Tennyson  and  Longfellow 
poems  are  made  to  fit  the  birthdays  of  equally  delight- 
ful people.  It  is  very  pleasing,  and  the  books  fill  up 
quickly.  Object:  unknown.  Birthday  presents  seem 
to  have  gone  out  of  fashion.  I  fancy  I  must  have 
written  my  name  in  at  least  a  hundred  birthday  books. 
Nobody  has  ever  sent  me  a  birthday  present.  I  live 
in  hopes  that  some  day  my  lavishly  scattered  auto- 
graphs may  bear  fruit.  Up  to  the  present,  they  have 
been  hopelessly  sterile.  Perhaps  they  have  been 
thrown  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

The  collection  of  autographs  on  board  ship  is  just 
"  something  to  do  " — something  very  silly,  I  think, 
but  I  can't  help  doing  it.  I  shall  do  it  again  next  year. 
I  know  I  shall,  though  at  this  precise  moment  I  real- 
ise the  bewildering  imbecility  of  the  proceeding. 
Sometimes  the  request  for  your  autograph  is  rather 


14  The  Great  Wet  Way 

flattering — on  land.  At  sea,  never.  At  sea,  you 
know  that  people  do  not  really  want  your  signature; 
they  have  merely  "  got  to  have  it,"  for  reasons  that, 
as  I  said  before,  are  perfectly  inexplicable. 


o 


People  cannot  get  out  of  the  habit  of  "  doing 
things."  They  have  been  doing  things  all  winter; 
they  have  promised  themselves  a  complete  rest  on 
board  ship,  and  lo!  they  cannot  rest.  They  are  im- 


The  Queer  Things  We  See  15 

pelled  to  eternal  movement,  like  the  Wandering  Jew. 
Rather  than  do  nothing  gracefully,  they  do  every- 
thing ungracefully.  They  stand  on  deck,  in  the  broil- 
ing sun,  and  play  shuffleboard,  a  most  stupefying  pro- 
ceeding, to  my  mind.  They  call  it  a  pastime,  and  not 
a  proceeding.  You  see  them  playing  by  the  hour, 
pushing  what  looks  like  a  dog-biscuit  into  a  num- 
bered, chalk-marked  square,  with  an  instrument  that 
resembles  a  rake.  They  are  quite  excited  about  it, 
and  even  wax  indignant  when  you  happen  to  walk 
over  the  chalk-marks  and  interfere  with  their  game. 

They  do  not  play  for  stakes,  but  for  pure  honour 
and  glory,  which  are  always  delectable,  if  not  nourish- 
ing. Some  miserable  sailor  chalks  up  the  deck  for 
them — generally  about  the  third  day  out — and  they 
are  busy  at  this  "  pastime  "  until  they  land.  On  shore, 
they  would  probably  regard  it  as  a  lunatic  sport.  At 
sea,  it  is  invested  with  the  charm  of  complete  recrea- 
tion. It  "  kills  time."  Everybody  wants  to  "  kill 
time."  To  me  it  seems  a  great  pity,  for  goodness 
knows,  it  will  die  a  natural  death.  Time-killers  are 
murderers,  though  they  never  realise  that  fact.  Many 
people  on  board  ship  will  tell  you  that  they  are  suffer- 
ing from  nervous  breakdown  or  some  other  neuras- 
thenic contortion,  but  there  they  are,  using  all  their 
nervous  force  to  invent  some  particularly  inane 
method  of  "  killing  time  "  easily. 

Repose  is  a  quality  that  is  unknown  on  the  ocean- 
liner,  unless  it  be  a  very  rough  passage,  and  every- 


1 6  The  Great  Wet  Way 

body  is  sea-sick.  It  is  a  cruel  thing  to  say,  and  I 
rather  hate  myself  for  saying  it,  but  sea-sickness  does 
keep  people  awfully  good,  and  it  gives  you  a  chance 
to  read  a  bit,  and  "  loaf  "  a  bit,  and  indulge  in  the 
supreme  and  unsurpassed  luxury  of  quiet — unless  you, 
too,  be  laid  low !  But  sea-sickness  does  not  last  long. 
Its  victims  recover  rapidly,  and  are  all  the  livelier 
for  their  little  bout.  They  make  up  for  lost  time. 

On  one  trip  about  twenty  boys  and  girls,  whose 
ages  varied  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five,  had  all  been 
prostrated  by  sea-sickness.  They  were  soon  better — 
they  were  soon  awe-inspiringly  well.  Their  health 


was  astoundingly  improved,  and  they  became  the 
"  life "  of  the  ship.  At  night,  they  sat  in  their 
steamer-chairs  on  deck,  and  sang  steadily  from  eight 
o'clock  till  midnight.  They  sang  through  all  the 
musical  comedies,  operettas,  burlesques,  extrava- 
ganzas, and  rag-time  excrescences  of  the  New  York 
season.  There  was  scarcely  a  known  coon-ditty  that 
they  did  not  sing  in  "  glee  "  form.  They  sang  college 
songs  and  national  airs,  and  Sousa  marches,  and  even 
two-steps.  The  supply  never  gave  out.  They 
warbled  horrors  from  the  music-halls.  They  gave 


The  Queer  Things  We  See  17 

us  the  classic  numbers  of  Vesta  Victoria,  Alice  Lloyd, 
Vesta  Tilley,  Harry  Lauder,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
"  vaudeville  "  nightingales  of  both  sexes. 

These  they  sang  every  night,  without  respite.  They 
never  seemed  to  speak  to  each  other — only  to  sing. 
Impossible  to  escape  this  chorus,  except  perchance  in 
the  hold  of  the  ship,  among  the  trunks.  All  the  non- 
singing  passengers  objected,  but  nobody  dared  to  say 
so.  These  young  persons  were  amusing  themselves 
innocently,  and  though  cynics  may  aver  that  inno- 
cence can  be  obnoxious,  they  may  not  say  so. 

Music  certainly  hath  charms.  It  must  have.  But 
exactly  why  twenty  nice  young  men  and  women  should 
shout  coon-songs  at  each  other,  instead  of  revelling 
in  affable  discussion,  is  something  of  a  sea-mystery. 
On  land,  they  would  have  exchanged  confidences,  have 
indulged  in  perfectly  pardonable  gossip,  have  ad- 
dicted themselves  to  the  pleasing  pursuit  of  rubber- 
necking. At  sea,  they  sang.  They  lifted  up  their 
voices  in  "  Afraid  to  go  Home  in  the  Dark,"  "  Stop 
Your  Tickling,  Jock,"  "Waiting  at  the  Church," 
and  "I  Don't  Like  Your  Family."  Merry,  effer- 
vescent, rollicking  young  folks  I  Perhaps  they  were 
anxious  to  drown  the  swish  of  the  Atlantic  in  the 
billows  produced  by  their  own  vocal  chords.  If  so, 
they  succeeded. 

Steamship  companies  realise  the  inability  of  pas- 
sengers to  take  the  sea-cure,  and  enjoy  mental  and 
physical  relaxation.  There  is  the  "  shopping  wo- 


1 8  The  Great  Wet  Way 

man  "  on  board  ship,  who  is  very  indignant  at  being 
idle  for  seven  days.  She  may  not  want  to  buy  any- 
thing— she  rarely  does — but  she  wants  to  "  shop." 

"  I  simply  cannot  wait  until  I  get  to  Sixth  Avenue 
and  Twenty-third  Street,"  said  one  of  her  to  me  last 
year.  "I  call  the  transatlantic  trip  brutal  and 
deadening.  I'd  like  to  be  shot  across  the  ocean  in  a 
pneumatic  tube.  I  need  the  dry-goods  stores.  I 
could  just  live  in  them,  and  it  is  in  New  York  that 
they  flourish  in  all  their  perfection." 

This  artistic  feminine  soul  was  rejoiced  at  the  dis- 
covery that  the  ship's  barber  had  things  to  sell.  She 
spent  most  of  her  mornings  with  the  barber,  looking 
at  his  wares.  It  was  on  one  of  the  Holland-America 
Line's  boats.  He  had  for  sale  little  wooden  slices, 
Dutch  tiles,  hat-pins,  combs,  flags,  pocket-books,  sou- 
venirs of  Holland,  and  a  large  variety  of  similar  de- 
lights. She  was  happy  when  she  discovered  this,  and 
announced  quite  emphatically  that  she  was  enjoying 
her  trip  at  last.  Just  before  landing,  she  grew  reck- 
less, and  showed  us  a  Dutch  tile  that  she  had  pur- 
chased, after  anxious  deliberation,  for  forty-five  cents. 
She  was  informed  by  some  presumably  jealous  sister- 
passenger,  that  she  had  been  "  done  "  and  that  those 
particular  tiles  were  to  be  seen,  in  lavish  display,  at 
the  "  five  and  ten  cent "  stores  in  New  York. 

Books,  flowers,  and  candies,  which  are  for  sale  on 
many  liners,  do  not  interest  the  "  shopping  woman." 
She  likes  something  more  useful.  She  clamours  for 
ribbons  and  laces  and  gew-gaws.  A  big  dry-goods 


<u 


c 

'"5 

c 

ci 


tx 

O 
<u 
0, 

c 
<u 

SJ 
O 


C 
'-C 

3 
O 


The  Queer  Things  We  See  19 

store  with  a  ranch  on  board  ship  would  be  enormously 
patronised.  Possibly  this  attraction  will  be  offered  in 
the  not  very  distant  future,  and  it  will  be  interesting 
to  watch  "  sea-shoppers,"  and  note  their  peculiarities. 
For,  as  every  taste  on  board  ship  differs  from  that 
observed  on  land,  the  sea-shopper  will  be  a  curiosity. 

The  only  thing  on  board  ship  that  differs  in  no  es- 
sential from  the  similar  pursuit  on  land,  is  the  game 
of  cards  in  the  smoke-room.  The  sea-change  is  not 
apparent  at  bridge,  for  instance.  People  are  just  as 
ratty  and  as  disagreeable  on  the  ocean  as  on  land. 
I  find  that  my  partners  at  bridge,  in  mid-Atlantic,  are 
just  as  ready  to  call  me  to  task  and  book  me  as  a 
fool  as  they  are  at  home.  They  do  not  regard  my 
bad  play  with  any  particular  sea-favour.  In  fact,  they 
are  just  as  alive  to  my  shortcomings  as  a  bridge- 
player.  As  they  have  been  perfect  strangers  to  me 
before  the  game,  I  am  always  in  hopes  that  they  will 
be  amiable  and  long-suffering,  as  they  never  are  on 
land.  But  they  never  are  on  sea. 

The  smoke-room  on  the  liner  is  filled  with  people 
anxious  to  forget  the  ocean,  and  be  as  much  on  land 
as  they  can.  Those  who  don't  play  cards  watch  those 
who  do.  In  a  bridge  game,  you  find  a  dozen  people 
standing  behind  you,  and  watching  your  play — which 
is  enough  to  rattle  the  strongest-minded.  You  feel 
that  you  are  bound  to  play  according  to  the  ideas  of 
the  twelve  good  men  and  true  at  your  back.  On 
land,  you  would  request  them  to  run  away  and  play, 
and  leave  you  to  your  miserable  fate.  At  sea,  you  are 


20  The  Great  Wet  Way 

at  their  mercy — which  is  the  same  as  being  "  at  sea  " 
in  another  sense.  I  grow  hopelessly  muddled,  do  the 
most  idiotic  things,  and  am  regarded  with  awe, 
mingled  with  contempt. 

At  sea,  the  same  inexplicable  sentiment  that  tempts 
me  to  collect  autographs  induces  me  to  play  bridge — 
which  I  can't  play.  It  is  amazing.  I  find  myself 
running  around,  trying  to  unearth  three  people  upon 
whom  to  saddle  myself.  Often,  I  am  regarded  as  a 
"  card-sharp  " — I  feel  sure  of  that.  My  strange 
frenzy  for  bridge  stamps  me  as  a  gambler,  and  people 
look  askance  at  me.  They  fear  me — until  they  have 
played  with  me,  when  they  despise  me.  I  have  the 
face  of  a  card  sharp.  I  know  it,  and  the  idea  is  op- 
pressive and  haunting.  I  am  innocent  and  ingenuous, 
confiding,  foolish,  and  frivolous,  but  I  do  not  look  it. 
I  try  to  put  on  a  transparent  and  boyish  expression, 
as  I  endeavour  to  capture  my  three  victims,  and  per- 
haps the  keen  desire  I  feel  to  be  looked  upon  as  harm- 
less militates  against  me. 

The  twelve  people  who  stand  behind  me,  watching 
my  game,  are  very  suspicious  at  first.  They  are  anx- 
ious to  protect  my  three  victims,  if  necessary.  This 
never  lasts  long.  At  the  end  of  the  first  rubber,  I 
have  invariably  shown  my  quality — the  quality  of  a 
card-idiot.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  most  remarkable 
of  all  the  sea-manias,  for  knowing  my  utter  inferiority 
as  a  bridge-player,  I  am  nevertheless  impelled,  by 
irresistible  impulse,  to  play  in  the  smoke-room,  and 
give  myself  away  to  a  batch  of  callous  strangers.  On 


The  Queer  Things  We  See  21 

one  occasion  I  played  with  three  Texans,  all  bridge 
experts !  I  played  with  the  courage  born  of  ignorance, 
but  only  one  game.  They  never  spoke  to  me  again. 
They  probably  thought  that  I  had  escaped  from  some 
lunatic  asylum.  And  I  had  hunted  them  up,  and 
begged  them  to  play!  After  each  game  I  am  filled 
with  remorse,  self-contempt,  bitter  humiliation,  and 
I  try  to  swear  off.  It  is  impossible.  It  is  a  sea-obses- 
sion, and  I  am  in  its  clutches. 

The  queer  things  we  see,  and  the  queer  things  we 
do  on  board  ship,  are,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  unique. 
You  go  on  board  sane,  logical,  level-headed  and  se- 
rious; you  become  comparatively  insane,  unlevel- 
headed,  and  trivial.  You  lose  your  balance,  and  why 
you  lose  it,  is  something  that  I  have  never  yet  been 
able  to  explain.  You  never  change  your  identity 
when  you  stay  at  a  big  hotel  on  land.  But  just  be- 
cause that  big  hotel  floats,  and  rests  on  the  salty 
depths  of  the  Atlantic,  you  are  temporarily  some- 
body else.  You  realise  the  significance  of  the  dual 
personality,  and  you  bow  to  what  seems  to  be  an 
inexorable  law.  When  I  find  myself  opera-glass- 
ing the  passing  ship,  raving  over  a  shoat  of  por- 
poises, in  fevered  quest  of  passengers'  autographs, 
and  playing  bridge  in  the  smoke-room,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  I  have  left  my  other  self  on  shore.  I 
am  somebody  else  whom  I  scarcely  recognise,  and 
certainly  do  not  admire.  My  real  self  would  cut  my 
ship  self  dead  on  Fifth  Avenue  or  Broadway  I 


II 


THE  ROOM-MATE 

F  you  possess  a  gentle, 
confiding,  optimistic  na- 
ture, and  are  not  too 
hampered  by  the  malev- 
olent whisperings  of  a 
|5j  sense  of  humour,  you  will 
not  be  affrighted  by  the 
sudden  appearance  on 
your  horizon  of  the 
room-mate.  I  do  not 
say  that  you  can  ever 
^learn  to  love  the  room- 
mate, but  with  certain 
mental  attributes  you  can 
brush  him  aside  as  you 
would  the  playful  and  persistent  mosquito. 

Of  the  room-mate  I  can  speak  from  my  soul!  I 
know  him  in  all  his  varieties.  I  can  prate  of  him 
when  he  is  unique,  and  comparatively  amenable  to 
reason;  when  he  is  double,  and  less  amenable  to  rea- 
son, and — the  admission  is  horrible — when  he  is 
triple.  Let  me  make  myself  clearly  understood.  I 
have  lived  the  subtle  and  intimate  life  of  the  ocean- 
steamer  stateroom,  with  one  mate,  with  two  mates, 
and  with  three  mates!  I  have  invariably  arrived 

22 


The  Room-Mate  23 

safely  at  my  destination.  Permit  me  to  dwell  upon  that 
fact,  for,  with  three  room-mates  I  did  not  seem  to 
mind  much  whether  I  landed  or  not.  Nothing  mat- 
tered particularly.  A  shipwreck  on  a  desert  island 
(though  desert  islands  are  disgustingly  rare  now- 
adays) would  not  have  been  detestable.  On  a  desert 
island,  at  least,  I  could  have  crawled  away  to  some  se- 
cluded nook,  and  have  shaken  my  three  room-mates. 

Oddly  enough,  you  do  not  select  your  own  room- 
mate. The  steamship  company,  in  affectionate  regard, 
does  that  for  you.  The  steamship  company  never 
positively  insists  upon  giving  you  a  room-mate.  For 
a  consideration,  it  will  graciously  assign  you  a  cabin 
to  yourself.  Fate  has  always  doomed  me  to  cross  the 
Atlantic  at  the  very  time  when  everybody  wanted 
to  do  the  same  thing,  and  I  have  never  been  million- 
airish  enough  to  treat  myself  to  solitude. 

The  room-mate  for  me  has  loomed  perpetually! 
The  various  steamship  companies  have  chosen  mates 
for  me  with  a  sweet  and  graceful  lack  of  discrimina- 
tion that  has  touched  my  heart.  I  have  never  se- 
lected my  own  companions,  nor  have  I  ever  known 
until  the  solemn  moment  of  "  Now  I  lay  me  down 
to  sleep  "  the  style  of  my  associates.  At  first  I  used 
to  be  nervous  and  apprehensive.  Being  a  dramatic 
critic — by  trade! — I  foresaw  my  room-mates  as  re- 
vengeful actors  or  vindictive  managers,  on  board 
for  the  express  purpose  of  murdering  me  as  I  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  unjust.  I  pictured  my  own  helpless- 


24  The  Great  Wet  Way 

ness  as,  alone  with  these  owners  of  grievances,  I  was 
left  completely  at  their  mercy — rocked,  of  course,  in 
the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

On  one  occasion  my  fears  were  so  cruel  that  two 
days  before  sailing  I  went  to  the  steamship  company, 
and  stated  my  case.  "Give  me  anybody!  "  I  cried 
pitifully.  "  Let  my  companion  be  a  bunco-steerer,  a 
confidence  man,  or  an  absconding  bank  president, 
but  do  not  jostle  me  with  an  actor.  If  you  happen 
to  have  any  unobtrusive  murderer  on  your  list,  let 
him  room  with  me,  please.  I  prefer  it.  It  is  an 
idiosyncrasy  of  mine." 

Since  I  have  grown  older  and  wiser — but  alas !  not 
richer — I  have  approached  the  room-mate  with  less 
horror.     I  go  to  my  stateroom  and  beam  effulgently 
upon  the  wretch  who  has  appro- 
priated all  the  pegs,  most  of  the 
cupboards,  and  all  the  trunk  space 
underneath     the     berths — besides 
having   his    hat-boxes,    suit-cases, 
and  hampers  decorating  the  spot 
intended  for  my  occupancy.  Good 
nature  exudes  from  the  pores  of 
my  skin.    I  love  my  room-mate. 
You  see,  he  is  a  fellow-creature.  I 
say  that  to  myself  several  times — 
"  He  is  a  fellow  creature — he  is  a 
fellow  creature." 
*2L       The  fellow  creature  scowls  at 


The  Room-Mate  25 

me  as  I  appear,  so  merry  and  debonair.  He  is  un- 
packing. He  is  not  prepared  to  meet  me.  I  murmur 
a  few  graceful  words  to  the  effect  that  I  shall  have 
occasion  each  night  to  snatch  some  minutes  of  happy 
sleep  in  that  particular  stateroom.  I  put  it  very  deli- 
cately. I  never  say  right  out  and  brutally:  "  You  are 
my  room-mate  I  " 

He  is  usually  very  much  shocked  to  see  me  there. 
In  his  eyes,  I  am  a  leper.  He  continues  his  unpacking, 
and  evidently  thinks  that  we  shall  be  at  sea  for  six 
months,  for  his  worldly  goods  seem  endless.  He 
looks  at  me  disagreeably  and  says:  "  Small  quarters 
for  two." 

But  I  am  frightfully  merry,  and  refuse  to  be  dis- 
mayed. I  say  joyously:  "  Oh,  I  daresay  we  can  get 
along.  You'll  never  know  I'm  in  the  room.  It  isn't 
a  bad  room,  either.  I've  been  in  many  worse  " — 


26 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


which  is  strictly  true.    However  bad  the  room  may 
be,  I  have  been  in  worse. 

Then  he  says:  "  You  don't  snore,  do  you?  " 
That  always  "  gets  "  me.  If  a  man  knew  that  he 
snored,  surely  he  would  desist  from  such  an  atrocious 
practice.  Snoring  seems  to  be  some  ugly  manifesta- 
tion of  the  subliminal,  and  a  man  is  not  responsible 
for  his  subliminal.  So  many  room-mates  have  told 
me  that  I  don't  snore,  that  I  am  at  least  entitled  to 
say  that  I  don't.  And  they  usually  do  I  They  seem 
to  be  crossing  the  ocean  just  to  snore. 

However,  I  tell  my  interrogator  that  I  have  never 
snored  in  my  life,  and  let  him  know  my  opinion  of 
snorers.  As  a  race,  snorers  should  be  sequestrated. 
There  is  no  hope  for  them.  They  are  blots  on  the 
fair  face  of — Morpheus.  I  might  almost  call  them 
freckles  on  that  benign  counte- 
nance. Anti-snoring  inventions  are 
of  no  avail.  I  once  knew  a  man 
who,  at  the  instigation  of  his  law- 
ful wife,  bought  an  anti-snorer,  and 
went  to  sleep  with  it  carefully  ad- 
justed to  his  nose.  In  the  middle  of 
the  night,  the  family  arose,  and  as- 
sembled solemnly  in  the  dining- 
room.  The  snoring  of  the  luckless 
man  was  like  the  frantic  wail  of  a 
lost  soul.  In  a  procession,  they  went 
to  his  room,  tore  off  the  anti-snorer, 


The  Room-Mate  27 

and  buried  it  next  morning  in  the  garden.  After  that, 
his  normal  snoring  sounded  like  heavenly  music. 

"I  suppose  you  don't  read  at  night?"  continues 
my  jolly  cross-examiner,  "  because  I  can't  sleep  with 
the  light  on." 

Of  course  I  read  at  night.  That  is  the  very  time 
when  I  do  read.  I  select  a  "  popular  "  novel,  and  it 
always  sends  me  to  sleep.  Give  me  a  comfortable 
bed,  and  the  latest  work  of  Marie  Corelli  or  Hall 
Caine,  and  insomnia  is  routed,,  unless  I  happen  to 
have  spoiled  the  night  by  a  snooze  at  the  Metropoli- 
tan Opera  House.  (I  usually  promise  myself  to 
keep  awake  at  the  Metropolitan,  but  I  am  sorely 
tempted,  and  I  fall — asleep.) 

"  I  do  not  read  at  sea,"  I  say  sorrowfully,  perceiv- 
ing the  sourness  of  the  grapes.  "  I  just  tumble  into 
my  bunk,  and  am  asleep  before  you  can  say  knife." 

He  looks  as  though  he  would  like  to  do  more  than 
say  knife,  but  he  unblocks  the  way  and  lets  me  in. 
I  tell  him  my  name  and  as  much  of  my  pedigree  as  I 
dare.  He  accepts  these  credentials,  which  are  really 
no  better  than  the  "  written  reference  "  of  cooks,  and 
does  not  argue.  Then,  if  I  want  the  port-hole  open, 
he  prefers  it  closed;  if  I  suggest  shutting  the  door,  he 
hankers  for  it  to  be  left  on  the  hook;  if  I  ask  that  a 
ray  of  light  be  left,  so  that  I  may  know  where  I  am 
— which  is  sometimes  necessary — he  has  an  uncon- 
querable craving  for  pitch  darkness. 

Throughout  the  trip,  I  feel  like  an  intruder,  and 


28  The  Great  Wet  Way 

am  always  apologising  for  being  alive.  I  steal  out 
to  a  furtive  bath  in  the  morning  while  he  is  snor- 
ing. I  rush  back,  and  dress,  while  he  is  still  snoring, 
and  I  try  to  avoid  him  during  the  day.  Usually,  just 
before  landing,  he  tells  me  how  glad  he  is  to  have 
met  me,  and  gives  me  his  card.  He  has  grown  ac- 
customed to  me.  He  will  miss  my  merry  moods,  and 
my  boyish  prattle. 

It  is  much  more  difficult  to  pursue  these  tactics  of 
self-effacement  when  the  agony  is  doubled,  and  there 
are  two  room-mates.  Still,  I  am  such  a  stoic,  that 
even  this  fails  to  daunt  me.  My  plan  is  this :  to  delay 
my  appearance  until  the  two  have  met,  and  have 
begun  to  loathe  each  other.  I  deliberately  keep  away 
from  my  stateroom — or  their  stateroom — until  I  am 
convinced  that  the  worst  has  happened.  Then  I 
burst  in  upon  them  like  a  beautiful  vision.  They  are 
both  arranged  on  their  shelves  for  the  night,  like 
bric-a-brac,  and  I  have  the  floor  to  myself.  While 
they  do  not  look  as  pleased  to  see  me  as  I  could  wish, 
their  recumbent  position  puts  them  at  a  disadvantage. 
They  have  usually  appropriated  every  available  space 
in  the  room,  but  as  they  are  lying  there  helpless,  I 
gently  remove  their  things,  and  hang  up  my  own, 
while  I  discourse  airily  on  glittering  generalities.  It 
is  certainly  a  very  fine  boat,  I  say,  as  I  take  a  coat 
from  my  peg,  and  substitute  one  of  my  own;  the 
Captain  seems  to  think  that  it  will  be  an  extremely 
good  trip,  I  murmur,  as  I  remove  a  pair  of  reluctant 


The  Room-Mate  29 

trousers  from  my  rack,  and  diffidently  place  my  own 
there ;  and — er — this  line  takes  such  excellent  care  of 
passengers,  I  tell  them,  as  I  dump  all  my  collars  and 
ties  in  the  little  drawer,  that  my  unselfish  associates 
have  destined  for  their  own.  They  watch  me  with 
wakeful  eyes,  but  each  mate  seems  afraid  of  the 
other.  I  find  that  this  scheme  works  splendidly.  I 
am  gentle  but  very  firm — tender,  yet  masterful. 

It  is  an  odd  predicament,  when  you  come  to  an- 
alyse it.  Here  we  are,  three  absolute  strangers, 
jostled  into  unwilling  intimacy,  by  the  exigencies  of 
the  Atlantic  Ocean.  On  terra  firma  such  a  condition 
of  things  would  be  not  only  incongruous,  but  ribald. 
The  fact  that  there  is  water,  instead  of  land,  beneath 
us,  has  given  two  unknown  men  the  right  to  listen  to 
me,  as  I  talk  pleasantly  in  my  sleep,  and  chatter  un- 
consciously of  my  past. 

Once,  and  once  only,  was  I  one  of  a  joyous  quartet, 
on  a  steamship  announcing  as  a  specialty  "  large  airy 
staterooms  amidships."  On  that  occasion,  even  my 
sense  of  humour  was  routed,  and  I  was  a  grave  and 
soured  man  travelling  from  England  to  the  United 
States  with  three  fellow  creatures,  even  graver  and 
more  soured.  When  the  four  berths  were  "  up  " 
the  large  and  airy  stateroom  could  easily  have  been 
covered  by  one  of  my  favourite  pocket-handkerchiefs. 
When  the  four  of  us  stood  up  at  the  same  time  in 
the  stateroom,  it  seemed  like  a  dense  crowd  in  the 
subway,  and  I  used  to  look  for  a  strap  from  the  ceil- 


30  The  Great  Wet  Way 

ing  to  hang  on  to!   I  missed  the  voice  of  the  genial 
conductor,  crying  "  Step  lively !  " 

One  of  us  was  a  clergyman,  very  much  oppressed 
by  his  close  quarters,  and  inclined  to  worry  a  good 
deal  more  about  his  body  than  about  his  soul.  There 
was  literally  no  room  for  souls.  The  minister  had 
never  before  crossed  amid  such  surroundings.  (He 
looked  at  us  so  that  we  could  not  mistake  his  mean- 
ing. We  were  the  surroundings.)  He  took  great 
trouble  to  explain  that  he  had  intended  booking  by 
the  Kronprinz,  the  Kaiser  Wilhelm,  or  the  Lusitania, 
but  at  the  last  moment  his  physician  had  recom- 
mended him  a  slow  steamer.  He  wanted  us  to  know 

— and  it  certainly  was  not 
his  fault  if  we  didn't 
know — that  he  had  never 
journeyed  on  one  of  these 
boats  before.  I  mildly 
suggested  that,  even  on 
this  line,  he  might  have 
had  a  deck  stateroom.  He 
was  prepared  for  that 
suggestion.  He  had  ap- 
plied for  a  deck  state- 
room. There  were  none 
left.  Having  explained 
his  unwilling  presence  in 
our  midst,  he  proceeded 
to  make  the  worst  of  it ! 


JO 

3 


The  Room-Mate  31 

You  will  always  meet  people  on  slow  lines  who 
carefully  apologise  for  being  there.  They  are  im- 
pelled to  right  themselves  in  your  eyes,  and  to  excuse 
themselves  for  herding  with  you.  They  would  hate 
you  to  think  that  motives  of  economy  have  prompted 
their  selection  of  a  slow  boat.  Curiously  enough,  I 
always  do  think  that,  judging  their  motives  by  my 
own.  Most  people  on  board  ship  like  you  to  think 
of  them  with  the  richest  thoughts  possible.  It  is 
one  of  the  oddities  of  ocean  travel.  Personally,  I 
see  no  earthly  object  in  being  thought  wealthier  than 
I  am — not!  So  I  was  the  lowly  one  of  this  par- 


32  The  Great  Wet  Way 

ticular  quartet.  Even  the  drummer — who  travelled 
"  for  hose  " — was  inclined  to  be  a  trifle  affluent,  and 
retired  for  the  night  in  silk  pajamas,  while  I  took 
to  my  bunk  in  pure  cotton! 

It  was  not  a  cosy  crossing.  I  used  to  try  and 
imagine  that  I  was  an  Italian  day-labourer,  living  in 
a  tenement  house  on  the  east-side,  and  I  believe  that 
this  was  very  good  exercise  for  my  imagination. 
Dressing  in  the  morning  was  rather  precarious,  un- 
expected, and  amusing.  I  often  found  myself  in  the 
clergyman's  shirt,  or  on  the  verge  of  donning  the 
drummer's  trousers.  The  fourth  passenger  was  the 
safest.  He  was  a  very  fat  person,  and  his  clothes 
belonged  to  him,  and  to  nobody  else.  We  took  no 
liberties  with  his  apparel. 

Fortunately  we  were  all  robust,  and  well.  Luckily, 
we  spent  no  more  time  in  our  "  airy 
stateroom  amidships  "  than  was  ab- 
solutely necessary.  We  took  no  naps 
in  the  afternoon.  We  indulged  in  no 
prolonged  matutinal  snoozes.  We 
came  down  from  our  shelves,  like 
animated  ornaments,  and  stayed 
down.  It  seemed  delightful  to  meet 
people  on  deck  who  were  not  room- 
mates. I  never  before  realised  how 
interesting  a  fellow  can  be  when  he 
is  somebody  else's  room-mate. 

The  room-mate  is  also  feminine — 


The  Room-Mate 


33 


for  feminine  passengers.  By  acute  research  I  have 
discovered  that  their  grim  satire  is  increased  by  the 
translation  to  the  other  sex.  The  harrowing  stories 
told  by  room-mated  women  have  led  me  to  believe 
that,  after  all,  the  room-mated  man  is  not  so  much  to 
be  pitied.  In  the  solemnity  of  the  stateroom,  the 
feminine  passenger  chafes  as  she  is  overlooked.  Now- 
adays, when  the  travelling  woman  is  a  work  of  art, 
one  hates  to  think  of  the  unfortunate  girl  who  is 
dispassionately  watched  by  a  room-mate  as  she  combs 
out  her  "puffs.,"  applies  a  fascinating  "glint"  to 
her  perfect  tresses,  and  removes  the  stress  of  wind 
and  wave  from  her  complexion.  Solitude — utter 
solitude — is  what  she  clamours  for,  and  behold  the 
poor  thing  is  boxed  up  in  unsought  intimacy  with — 
perhaps — a  Massachusettsian  schoolmarrn  or  one  of 


34 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


the  gentle,  purring,  silver-tongued  members  of  the 
W.  C.  T.  U. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  frivolous  young  thing  who 
creates  havoc  among  the  masculine  passengers  on  an 
ocean-liner  is  invariably  associated  in  her  stateroom 
with  the  gaunt  New  England  spinster  who  believes  in 
nature  unadorned,  and  considers  titivation  to  be  lack- 
ing in  the  first  elements  of  respectability.  Picture  the 
juxataposition  of  the  chorus  girl  and  the  suffragette! 
Imagine  the  dear  promixity  of  a  serio-comic  and  a 
temperance  lecturer!  These  odd  stateroom  compan- 
ionships frequently  occur.  The  steamship  com- 
panies never  worry.  They  are  very  sweet,  and 
unselfish,  and  optimistic  about  it.  To  the  practical 
steamship  company,  a  room-mate  is  but  a  room- 
mate, just  as  in  the  Wordsworthian  poem: 


A  primrose  by  a   river's  brim 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more. 

In  the  offices  of  the  steamship  com- 
panies the  room-mate  is  neither  comedy, 
tragedy,  farce,  nor  melodrama.  He  is 
just  room-mate,  or  human  ballast.  Try 
and  think  of  yourself  as  ballast,  and  all 
will  be  well  with  you,  and  your  days  will 
be  long  and  happy  on  the  ocean  trip. 
This  may  be  difficult,  but  that  which  man 
has  done,  man  may  do.  Man  has  done 


The  Room-Mate 


35 


it.  I  have.  I  have  posed  as  one-hundred-and-forty 
pounds  of  ballast  during  several  months  of  my  busy 
life. 

Crossing  from  Rotterdam  to  New  York,  recently, 
I  met  a  lady  whom  I  knew  very  few.  She  came  on 
board  at  Boulogne,  quite  late  at  night.  She  wore  a 
look  of  haggard  distress,  and  could  scarcely  find  time 
to  ask  me  how  I  was,  or  say  how  pleased  she  was 
to  meet  me.  She  stood  quite  still  as  she  reached  the 
deck,  and  enquired  of  me  most  imperiously: 

"  Have  you  seen  Miss  Myers?  " 

At  first  I  thought  this  was  a  riddle,  or  a  "  catch," 
and  I  am  awfully  bad  at  riddles  and  "  catches."  I 


36  The  Great  Wet  Way 

said  nothing,  declining  to  compromise  myself,  or  be- 
tray my  ignorance.  But  the  lady — I  shall  call  her 
Mrs.  Kelly — looked  so  ominous  and  serious  that  I 
was  puzzled. 

"Who  is  Miss  Myers?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "  I  wish  I  did. 
I'm  so  tired.  I've  been  traipsing  about  Boulogne  all 
afternoon,  waiting  for  this  wretched  boat.  I  should 
love  to  go  to  bed,  but  I  must  see  Miss  Myers. 
Who  is  she?" 

"  Probably  the  daughter  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Myers,"  I  said  flippantly. 

"Don't!"  cried  Mrs.  Kelly.  "Don't!  Oh,  I 
must  find  Miss  Myers.  Do  please  see  if  you  can  dis- 
cover her.  Ask  the  stewards ;  search  well,  and  bring 
her  to  me.  I  will  wait  here." 

An  awful  idea  that  Miss  Myers  must  be  some 
desperate  character,  who  had  perhaps  been  trying  to 
murder  Mrs.  Kelly,  flashed  through  my  mind.  I  ran 
off,  and  hunted  for  her.  There  was  an  enormous 
crowd  on  board;  the  passages  were  lined  with  in- 
coming trunks.  All  the  stewards  were  busy,  and  not 
at  all  inclined  to  discuss  Miss  Myers.  I  found  the 
Captain  and  implored  him  to  tell  me  the  truth  about 
Miss  Myers.  I  promised  to  cherish  his  secret.  The 
Captain  seemed  to  think  that  I  was  an  escaped  luna- 
tic. High  and  low  I  sought  for  Miss  Myers.  I 
read  labels  on  steamer  chairs,  and  got  down  on  my 
knees  to  decipher  legends  on  trunks.  It  was  no  use, 


The  Room-Mate 


37 


and  I  had  to  give  up  the  search.  It  was  quite  im- 
possible. 

Mrs.  Kelly  was  still  standing  where  I  had  left  her. 
As  she  saw  me  approaching,  she  leaped  forward,  and 
exultantly  cried :  "  You  have  found  Miss  Myers ! 
You  have  found  Miss  Myers  I  " 

I  broke  the  news  as  delicately  as  I  could.    I  had 


^ 

not  found  Miss  Myers;  in  fact  I  believed  that  Miss 
Myers  was  like  Mrs.  'Arris — there  "  wasn't  no  sich 
person." 

"  But  there  is — there  is  I  "  Mrs.  Kelly  almost  wept. 
"  They  told  me  about  her  in  London.  They  told  me 
about  her  in  Paris.  They  told  me  about  her  in 
Boulogne.  I  have  dreamed  of  her,  and  dreaded  her. 
The  very  thought  of  her  drives  me  wild " 


38  The  Great  Wet  Way 

Then,  and  then  only,  it  dawned  upon  me  that  my 
poor  friend,  Mrs.  Kelly,  was  mad — mad  as  a  March- 
hare  I  Pleasure — European  pleasure— had  unhinged 
her  reason. 

"  Never  mind,"  I  said  gently,  trying  to  humour 
her.  "  Never  mind.  Perhaps  there  is  a  Miss  Myers, 
but  she  won't  hurt  you.  I  will  see  that  she  does  not. 
She  is  probably  a  very  sweet  girl,  and  she  has  forgiven 
you.  Yes,  I  am  sure  that  she  has  forgiven  you.  She 
has  decided  that  revenge  would  be  foolish  and  un- 
Christian.  She  is  fond  of  you — I  know  she  is — and 
when  you  see  her,  just  shake  hands  with  her,  and 
say  that  you  have  determined  to  bury  the  hatchet." 

"  Her  Christian  name  is  Edith,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Kelly. 

"  And  a  very  pretty  name,  too,"  I  remarked,  §till 
trying  to  humour  her.  "  I  love  the  name  of  Edith. 
*  Edith  Myers ' — it  is  euphonious.  Now  if  I  were 
you,  I  should  go  to  bed,  and  to-morrow  you  will  feel 
better  and  more  like  yourself." 

"  Don't  be  idiotic,"  said  Mrs.  Kelly  peevishly,  and 
rather  rudely,  I  thought.  "  I  won't  go  to  bed.  This 
Myers  woman  is  my  room-mate,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  undo  myself,  and  look  a  sight,  for  a  strange  woman 
to  come  in  and  laugh  at.  I'll  stay  up  until  I  find  her. 
I  begged  the  company  for  a  room  alone,  but  it  was 
impossible.  All  they  could  give  me  was  a  small  cabin 
with  Miss  Myers,  and" — here  Mrs.  Kelly  tried  to 
keep  back  the  tears — "  I'm  a  stout  woman.  I  may 


The  Room-Mate 


39 


even  say  that  I'm  a  fat  woman.  I  need  space,  and 
plenty  of  it.  Suppose — suppose — Miss  Myers  is  also 
fat.  What  then?  What  does  the  company  care? 
What  redress  have  I  ?  " 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  laughed.  I  hated  myself 
for  laughing.  My  sympathetic  nature,  however,  as- 
serted itself  quickly.  I  tried  to  unearth  some  of  the 
balm  that  is  popularly  supposed  to  lurk  in  Gilead. 

"  She  couldn't  be  fat,  dear  Mrs.  Kelly,"  I  said  sim- 
ply. "  Why  she  is  a  girl ;  she  is  a  *  miss ' ;  it  is  absurb 
to  imagine  her  fat — just  because — er — you  happen  to 
be  a  bit  plump.  And  *  Edith ' — *  Edith '  is  such  a 
thin  name.  Oh,  I  feel  sure  that  Miss  Myers  is  a 
sylph;  she  may  even  be  emaciated.  Let  me  see  you 
to  your  cabin,  and  introduce  you." 

She  allowed  me  to  accompany  her  along  the  pas- 
sage to  her  stateroom.    It 
was  indeed  a  small  "  in- 
side "  apartment,  with  two 
berths.    On   a  camp-stool 
were  letters  addressed  to 
Miss  Edith  Myers;  there 
was  no  other  indication  of  ^ 
her  existence. 

"You  see  I  "cried  Mrs. 
Kelly,  in  dismal  triumph. 
"  She'll  come  in  at  mid- 
night, or  later,  and  I  shall 
be  in  my  bunk  looking 


40  The  Great  Wet  Way 

odious,  with  my  hair  in  crimpers,  and  cream  on  my 
face.  I  always  put  cream  on  my  face  before  retiring, 
and  it  looks  so  slippery  and  dreadful.  Why  shouldn't 
a  respectable  woman  turn  in  at  a  decent  hour?  But 
perhaps  she  isn't  respectable.  I  don't  believe  she 
is.  She  may  be  up  in  the  smoke-room  carousing.  Do 
go  and  see." 

I  persuaded  Mrs.  Kelly  to  forget  Miss  Myers,  and 
left  her,  eyeing  the  letters  with  sinister  gaze.  I  ap- 
preciated her  sentiments  with  regard  to  the  room- 
mate— especially  as  at  that  moment  I  had  to  go  and 
inspect  mine.  Next  morning,  Mrs.  Kelly  told  me  that 
she  had  passed  a  sleepless  night,  waiting  for  Miss 
Myers,  who  never  came.  She  insisted  that  she  felt 
very  much  like  Mariana  of  the  Moated  Grange — in 
fact  even  more  so.  Miss  Myers'  letters  disappeared 
during  the  day.  We  spent  hours  seeking  for  her,  but 
never  found  her. 

That  night  Mrs.  Kelly  was  told  that  she  could 
have  the  cabin  to  herself,  as  Miss  Myers  had  been 
able  to  accommodate  herself  elsewhere.  Joy  was 
written  on  her  face,  but  it  was  tempered  by  the  cu- 
rious feminine  streak  of  "  cussedness  "  that,  to  the 
masculine  mind,  is  so  splendidly  and  so  glitteringly 
illogical. 

"  I'm  glad  to  get  rid  of  the  creature,"  she  said. 
"  Of  course.  But  why  the  woman  should  avoid  me 
like  a  plague,  I  don't  know.  I  daresay  she  thinks 
I've  some  contagious  disease.  If  I  find  her  during  the 
trip,  I'll  give  her  a  piece  of  my  mind.  She  might  at 


The  Room-Mate  41 

least  have  had  the  decency  to  come  to  me,  and 
apologise •" 

"  Apologise?  "  I  gasped.    "  What  for?  " 

"Well,  perhaps  I  should  say  explain,"  cor- 
rected Mrs.  Kelly.  "  An  explanation  was  necessary. 
It  would  have  been  courteous.  Still,  I'm  satisfied. 
I'm  alone,  at  any  rate.  I  always  think  that  a  woman 
travelling  alone  is  pathetic,  don't  you?  I'd  like  to 
catch  a  glimpse  of  Miss  Myers.  Perhaps,  after  all, 
she  was  a  nice,  simple,  unaffected  young  girl " 

Consistency,  thy  name  is  woman ! 

"  How  many  life-long  friendships  have  resulted 
from  the  enforced  companionship  of  the  ocean- 
liner?"  asks  the  sentimentalist.  (Sentimentalists  in- 
variably ask  pungent  questions,  and  never  wait  for 
the  answer.)  To  which  I  reply:  perhaps,  but  not  in 
the  case  of  room-mates. 

My  room-mates-that-were  cross  my  path  persist- 
ently. I  have  met  them  at  hotels,  at  theatres,  in 
trains,  and  wherever  men  do  congregate.  I  look  at 
them  sheepishly,  and  they  return  the  look  with  more 
of  the  sheepish  quality.  I  recall  their  little  eccentrici- 
ties, and  those  cunning  little  ways  that  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  brings  out — like  measles.  I  think  of  them, 
pajama'd  and  cranky,  in  the  silence  of  the  mid-At- 
lantic nights,  and  perhaps  I  nod  haughtily,  as  I  recog- 
nise them.  Perhaps  they  do,  too.  They  have  the 
same  benign  thoughts  of  me  that  I  have  of  them. 
Something  we  speak — of  nothing  in  particular,  and 
everything  in  general. 


42  The  Great  Wet  Way 

The  ex-room-mate  I  meet  at  the  theatre  no  longer 
says  to  me,  "  Do  you  snore?  "  I  wonder,  as  I  look 
at  him,  how  he  ever  dared  to  ask  me  such  a  leading 
question.  But  he  did  dare.  At  the  theatre,  when  we 
condescend  to  talk,  we  discuss  the  play  in  an  imper- 
sonal manner.  He  is  not  even  anxious  to  know 
whether  I  read  at  night.  A  life-long  friendship  with 
an  ex-room-mate?  Perish  the  thought.  The  mys- 
tery is  lacking.  The  ideal  is  absent.  Imagine  being 
eternally  with  a  man  whom  you  first  saw  wobbling 
all  over  a  rickety  stateroom,  and  then  beheld  neatly 
tucked  up  in  an  abbreviated  bunk,  and  aggressively 
clad  in  baby-blue  for  the  night. 

The  ex-room-mate  is  a  thing  apart,  and  a  memory. 
His  materialisation  would  be  vain,  and  quite  unneces- 
sary. You  try  to  banish  him  from  your  life,  as  you 
see  him  for  the  last  time,  usually  in  the  grip  of  the 
Custom  House,  perjuring  his  soul  for  all  it  is  worth, 
and  looking  very  fervid  and  uneasy  about  it.  This 
is  a  fitting  end  to  the  room-mate.  To  meet  him  again 
in  every-day  life,  to  resurrect  him,  as  it  were,  is  an 
anti-climax.  Life  is  full  of  anti-climaxes,  but  I  re- 
spectfully submit  that  they  are  inartistic  and  de- 
moralising. 


Ill 


PARTAKING  OE .  NOURISHMENT 

F  Lucullus  could  cross 
the  Atlantic  to-day, 
he  would  probably 
grumble,  in  pictur- 
esque discontent, at  the 
"food."  That  is  part 
of  one's  daily  duty  on 
board  ship.  Even 
though  the  splendidly 
thought-out  and  com- 
pletely artistic  din- 
ners served  on  some 
of  the  liners  would 
probably  make  the 
historical  banquets  of 
Lucullus  look  like  "  thirty  cents  " — not  excluding  the 
famous  repast  at  which  Caesar  and  Pompey  sur- 
prised him — he  would  undoubtedly  growl,  as  every- 
body growls,  on  the  popular  steamship.  Lucullus 
would  presumably  think  up  something  that  was  not 
on  the  bill  of  fare,  and  ask  pathetically  for  that  one 

43 


44  The  Great  Wet  Way 

particular  something,  waxing  extremely  imperious 
and  indignant  if  it  were  not  forthcoming. 

You  can  have  more  fun  watching  the  gastronomic 
peculiarities  of  transatlantic  passengers  than  you 
can  obtain  at  a  circus.  The  dining-room  of  an  ocean 
steamship  is  a  circus.  The  meals  are  arranged  on 
the  comfortable  principle  that  every  passenger  is  a 
connoisseur.  It  is  a  principle  that  lands  the  steam- 
ship companies  in  a  veritable  jungle  of  misunder- 
standing. For  every  connoisseur  on  board,  there  are 
ten  barbarians,  who  do  not  demand  artistic  fare,  but 
clamour  merely  for  "  food."  They  just  want  to 
"  eat."  They  admit  this.  They  say  it.  You  will 
hear  women,  elegantly  gowned,  extremely  be-jew- 
elled,  and  obtrusively  costly-looking,  saying  to  each 
other,  in  dulcet  tones :  "  Let's  go  down  to  the  saloon, 
and  eat." 

This  is,  of  course,  very  frank  and  accurate.  They 
do  want  to  "  eat "  because  they  are  hungry.  But  I 
always  think  that  mere  eating  is  rather  a  nauseating 
process.  It  is  an  animal  function  that  we  are  at  least 
permitted  to  colour  gracefully,  and  attune  to  the  cour- 
tesies of  life.  As  we  "  eat "  in  society,  we  might  as 
well  be  as  nice  about  it  as  possible.  Pigs  and  cows 
"  eat."  Pigs  and  cows  never  breakfast,  or  lunch,  or 
dine.  Therefore  we  might  as  well  do  so — if  only  to 
distinguish  ourselves  from  the  pigs  and  cows.  Not 
that  I  am  saying  a  word  against  or  attempting  to 
slight  the  pigs  and  cows.  On  the  contrary,  I  like 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  45 

them.  But  some  of  the  things  they  do  in  their  way 
I  prefer  to  do  differently  in  mine.  That  is  all.  Call 
me  "  uppish,"  if  you  will.  I  thoroughly  enjoy  observ- 
ing the  "  eaters  "  on  board  ship,  because  they  are  so 
lovely,  and  so  deliciously  amusing.  I  am  referring 
of  course  to  the  majority.  A  minority,  in  anything,  is 
rarely  entertaining,  because  it  is  absolutely  correct. 

Many  transatlantic  passengers — generally  Ameri- 
cans— who  are  returning  to  the  United  States  after 
a  few  months  of  European  travel,  impress  you  in- 
delibly with  the  idea  that  they  are  going  home  only 
for  food !  This  sounds  absurd,  but  you  can  draw  no 
other  conclusions  from  the  brilliant  remarks  that  you 
hear  at  the  table. 

"  Well,  I  shall  be  mighty  glad  to  get  back  to  good 
old  New  York,"  said  a  young  man  who  sat  opposite 
at  table,  last  year.  "  Europe's  all  right.  London  and 
Paris  know  a  few  things.  But  I  want  some  green 
corn  from  the  cob,  and  I  shan't  do  a  thing  to  it  when 
I  get  home.  I  tell  you,  old  chap,  you  miss  green 
corn  in  London  and  Paris.  You  never  know  what 
a  great  thing  it  is  until  you  can't  get  it." 

"  You  should  have  taken  a  quicker  boat,"  I  sug- 
gested, as  I  watched  him  looking  quite  hopelessly  at 
a  supreme  de  volatile.  "  You'll  be  a  long  time  get- 
ting into  green  corn  on  this  ship." 

He  talked  green  corn  all  the  way  to  New  York,  and 
was  very  droll.  It  was  his  first  trip  abroad.  He  had 
"  done  "  London,  Paris,  Berlin,  Vienna,  and  Buda- 


46  The  Great  Wet  Way 

pest  very  completely,  but  he  was  miserable  and  home- 
sick. He  was  home-sick  for  green  corn.  Perhaps  he 
had  "  loved  ones  "  in  New  York.  Very  probably. 
These,  however,  appeared  to  count  for  little.  The 
one  thing  that  made  life  worth  living  seemed  to  be 
green  corn.  It  was  impossible  to  avoid  that  con- 
clusion. 

I  sat  beside  a  sweet  little  lassie  from  Pittsburg  on 
one  occasion.    She  had  been  through  Italy — all  the 
way  through — and  had  spent  several  weeks  in  Venice. 
She  was  hung  with  corals.    Wherever  there  was 
space  on  her  person  for  a  coral — there  was  the  coral  I 
She  thought  Italy  "  quite  a  country,"  and  even  went 
so  far  as  to  admit  that  in  some  things,  Venice  was 
prettier  than  Pittsburg. 

II  Just  the  same,"   she  said  cooingly,   "  I'm  just 
crazy  to  get  back.     Venice  is  nice,  but  I  couldn't 
stand  the  food.    I  can't  wait  till  I  see  Pittsburg  again, 
and  get  some  of  mommer's  fried  chicken.    There's 
nothing  like  it  in  Italy.     Mommer's  fried  chicken 
just  melts  in  your  mouth.    I  feel  home-sick  when  I 
think  of  it" 

Now,  I  wonder  why  this  affectionate  little  thing 
didn't  take  mommer  to  Italy  with  her,  not  exactly  as 
a  chaperon,  but  as  a  chicken-frier.  While  this  par- 
ticular brand  of  fried  chicken  may  be  unknown  in 
artistic  Italy,  it  is  a  positive  fact  that  chickens  are 
quite  plentiful  there,  and  with  mommer  to  fry  them 
for  her,  the  little  Pittsburg  lassie  would  not  have 


0 

"3 

C 

o 


C 
o 
u 

•_ 

tc 


rt 

JS 

o 

2 
o 

3" 
o 


Partaking  of  Nourishment 


47 


been  so  home-sick.  It  is  dreadful  to  long,  home- 
sick-ishly,  for  anything,  but  how  exceedingly  awful 
it  must  be  to  yearn  hopelessly  for  fried  chicken  in  a 
barbaric  city  like  Venice.  How  odious  it  must  be 
to  see  the  uncivilised  Italians  (she  called  them 
Eyetalians)  dining  when  you  are  simply  pining  to 
"eat!" 

I  met  a  youth  who  hated  "  the  other  side  "  be- 
cause the  buckwheat  cakes  were  so  inferior.  He  was 
terribly  angry,  and  even  threatening  about  it.  He 
had  "  eaten  "  at  the  Carlton,  in  London,  at  Mar- 
guery's  in  Paris,  at  the  Bristol  in  Vienna,  and  at 
Bertolini's  in  Naples,  and  they  actually  didn't  know 
"  the  first  thing  "  about  "  serving  "  buckwheat  cakes. 
(I  liked  to  hear  him  talk  about  "serving"  buck- 
wheat cakes,  because  I  always  think  they  should  be 
thrown  at  you.)  It  was  all  very  well  to  say  that 
Europe  was  civilised.  It 
was  not.  He  was  sure 
of  it. 

"  It  seems  strange,"  he 
said,  "  but  it  is  a  positive 
fact  that  the  buckwheat 
cakes  I  get  in  Canandai- 
gua,  N.  Y.,  are  superior 
to  any  that  I  found  in 
Europe.  Gee!  I  shall 
be  glad  to  get  back  again. 
Europe's  a  bunco-game.'* 


48  The  Great  Wet  Way 

I  tried  to  draw  him  out,  and  to  glean  some  faint 
idea  of  the  artistic  side  of  his  trip.  This  was  im- 
possible. Europe  had  been  entirely  marred  for  him 
by  its  unseemly  indifference  to  buckwheat  cakes.  If 
he  could  have  made  of  buckwheat  cakes  a  casus  belli, 
he  would  certainly  have  done  so.  Of  course  it  was 
dreadfully  galling  for  the  poor  boy,  but  still,  he  has 
the  remedy  in  his  own  hands.  He  need  never  move 
again  from  the  cheering  buckwheat  cake. 

People  who  come  on  board  laden  down  with  food 


— on  the  principle  that  it  is  pious  to  take  coals  to 
Newcastle — add  immensely  to  the  jollity  of  the  trip. 
They  want  you  to  think  that  the  best  an  ocean  steam- 
ship can  do,  isn't  good  enough  for  them,  and  that 
they  can  do  better.  They  are  most  exhilarating. 

I  encountered  one  pleasing  old  gentleman  on  board 
who  was  freighted  with  an  enormous  hamper  of  red 
currants.  He  seemed  to  live  for  red  currants, — life 
without  them  would  be  but  an  empty  dream.  He  ap- 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  49 

peared  at  each  meal  bearing  a  plate  laden  with  the 
red  currants  that  he  set  ostentatiously  before  him. 
At  the  end  of  the  meal  he  carried  away  with  him  the 
currants  that  were  left.  The  company  had  peaches, 
nectarines,  and  the  most  delicious  fruits,  for  dessert. 
He  wouldn't  touch  them.  He  ate  his  red  currants  in 
silent  joy — never  even  passed  them  round.  We  all 
called  him  "  Currants,"  and  to  this  day  I  do  not 
know  him  by  any  other  name. 

Many  people  who  are  regarded  with  awe  as  being 
tremendously  "  wealthy  "  travel  with  food.  A  Stock 
Exchange  magnate  and  his  family  published  the  fact 
that  they  were  accompanied  by  their  own  butter.  Yes, 
they  simply  could  not  do  without  it.  He  had  a  valet, 
and  it  was  the  valet's  duty  to  make  the  butter  into 
"  pats  "  every  day,  and  put  a  "  pat  "  at  the  plate  of 
each  member  of  the  family  in  the  saloon.  The  fare 
on  this  particular  boat  was  sumptuous.  I  am  quite 
willing  to  swear  that  it  was  finer  than  any  that  the 
Stock  Exchange  gentleman  got  in  his  own  home.  It 
went  for  nothing.  Every  member  of  this  ultra-fas- 
tidious family  talked  butter,  until  you  wished  that 
such  a  commodity  had  never  been  invented.  The 
valet  was  anxiously  consulted  as  to  whether  he 
thought  that  the  butter  would  last  until  they  reached 
New  York.  I  must  confess  that  the  valet  was  most 
optimistic.  He  persistently  thought  it  would  last. 

Just  before  the  close  of  the  trip,  I  found  myself 
getting  peevish,  apprehensive,  and  nervous.  I  was 


50  The  Great  Wet  Way 

afraid  that  they  were  coming  to  the  end  of  the  but- 
ter, and,  honestly,  I  looked  upon  such  a  possibility  as 
a  calamity.  The  butter  did  last.  If  it  had  given 
out,  I  made  up  my  mind  to  move  to  some  other  table. 
I  could  not  have  borne  to  sit  idly  and  watch  the  bitter 
— not  butter — human  grief,  the  mental  agony,  and 
the  tense,  dry  tragedy  of  those  Stock  Exchange 
people  if  their  "  pats  "  had  given  out.  There  are 
some  events  in  life  that  are  too  harrowing. 

One  disgusted  youth,  travelling  to  New  York,  was 
wretched  because  the  menu  was  in  French.  I  suppose 
that  he  felt  a  bit  petulant  about  his  pronunciation, 
and  was  selfishly  anxious  to  deprive  the  steward  of 
wholesome,  boyish  fun.  At  any  rate,  when  the  bill 
of  fare  was  presented  to  him,  he  tossed  it  angrily 
aside.  He  would  give  no  order. 
"Bring  me  any  old 
thing!"  he  cried,  and  he 
never  varied  that  cry. 

To  select  "  any  old  thing  " 
from  a  bill  of  fare  that  in- 
cluded every  new  thing  was 
something  of  a  poser.  Stew- 
ards are,  fortunately,  not  unfamiliar  with  cranks, 
and  the  steward  on  this  occasion  was  an  experienced 
person.  He  plied  the  disgruntled  one  with  chops, 
and  the  disgruntled  one  always  ate  them.  Chops  are 
sure,  and  safe.  Chops  are  a  refuge  for  the  gastro- 
nomically  destitute.  They  respond  quite  appropri- 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  51 

ately  to  the  idea  of  "  any  old  thing."  This  youth 
was  very  pleasant  indeed,  except  at  meal  time.  He 
was  affable,  smiling,  chatty,  amusing. 

But  his  face  clouded,  his  demeanour  changed,  his 
geniality  vanished  as  the  waiter  appeared  with  the 
menu.  He  was  a  different  man;  he  was  Mr.  Hyde 
instead  of  Dr.  Jekyll,  as  he  uttered  those  contemptu- 
ous, weary,  and  heart-broken  words:  "Bring  me 
any  old  thing! " 

Many  untutored  people  in  the  steamship's  saloon 
do  all  their  ordering  at  once,  and  insist  that  every- 
thing shall  be  brought  to  them  at  the  same  time,  and 
arranged  symmetrically  before  them.  You  see  them 
sitting  before  a  formidable  array  of  plates.  This 
sort  of  diner  can  be  defined  as  "  a  piece  of  humanity 
entirely  surrounded  by  food."  He  has  his  soup,  his 
fish,  his  meat,  and  "  six  kinds  of  dessert "  all  served 
at  once,  and  draped  around  his  "  cover."  He  is  fes- 
tooned with  nourishment.  And  as  though  his  object 
in  life  were  to  avoid  making  one  dish  jealous  of  the 
other,  he  dips  into  each  impartially.  He  has  an  ich- 
thyosaurian  stomach,  and  few  preferences.  He  rev- 
els in  the  idea  of  plenty,  and  is  most  merry  with  his 
hard-working  steward.  This  diner  never  misses 
stewed  prunes.  He  is  always  careful  to  get  full  of 
prunes.  They  probably  remind  him  of  happy  days — 
long  since  fled!  Prunes  are  to  the  majority  of  un- 
sophisticated diners  what  "  lights "  are  to  a  cat. 
There  are  other  tjijngs,  of  course — good,  useful,  di- 


52  The  Great  Wet  Way 

gestible,  pretty  things,  but  prunes  are  something  wist- 
ful and  essential;  they  seem  to  appeal  to  a  better  na- 
ture, to  a  finer  and  more  exalted  outlook.  Woe  to 
the  ocean  liner  that  sails  from  port  without  prunes ! 
It  will  never  sail  pruneless  again.  The  European  in- 
difference to  prunes  drives  many  travellers  home. 
While  prunes  may  be  obtained  abroad,  they  are  not 
served  with  the  same  solemnity  and  the  careful  con- 
sideration that  travelling  Americans  demand.  The 
prune  abroad  is  not  a  rite,  but  just  a — plum ! 

Sometimes  passengers  seem  quite  normal  and  hu- 
man until  they  reach  the  dining  saloon.  Then  their 
normality  vanishes,  and  the  curiosities  of  their  nature 
come  out  for  an  airing.  You  never  really  know  a  man 
until  you  have  seen  him  at  table.  You  may  think  that 
you  do,  but  you — don't.  I  remember  crossing  with 
a  silk  merchant  from  Passaic,  New  Jersey,  who 
seemed  to  be  bubbling  over  with  the  milk  of  human 
kindness — or,  at  any  rate,  rustling  with  its  silk.  He 
was  one  of  the  liveliest  men  on  board — anxious  to 
know  and  commune  with  everybody,  and  interested  in 
everything.  All  this  was  changed  in  the  dining 
saloon. 

"  I  want  three  things  every  morning,"  he  said  to 
the  table  steward  at  the  first  meal,  "  and  I  shall  insist 
upon  getting  them.  Bring  me  hot  tea,  hot  milk,  and 
a  hot  cup.  Remember  those  three  things :  Hot  tea, 
hot  milk,  hot  cup,  and  see  that  they  are  never  miss- 
ing." 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  53 

The  table  steward  showed  no  surprise.  Any  table 
steward  who  is  surprised  at  anything  at  sea  would  be 
useless.  He  went  away  and  returned  with  hot  tea, 
warm  milk,  and  a  cold  cup.  The  rage  of  the  silk 
merchant  knew  no  bounds.  Had  some  dreadful 
catastrophe  happened,  he  could  scarcely  have  been 
more  upset. 

"  How  dare  you?  "  he  cried  indignantly,  as  he  felt 
all  around  the  cold  cup,  and  put  his  finger  in  the  milk. 
"  Go  heat  that  cup,  and  boil  that  milk — or  I'll  report 
you." 

The  next  morning  there  was  another  cyclone.  The 
cup  was  merely  warm,  the  tea  just  tepid,  and  the  milk 
boiling.  The  irate  passenger  stormed.  We  tried  to 
talk  to,  and  soothe  him,  but  he  was  frantic.  He  was 
insane  on  the  subject  of  hot  tea,  hot  milk,  hot  cup. 
Out  of  the  saloon,  he  could  converse  agreeably  on  any 
topic.  He  was  a  good-humoured,  genial  soul.  At 
luncheon  and  at  dinner  he  was  affability  personified, 
but  at  breakfast  he  was  a  devil  rampaging  around 
his  mania. 

It  grew  so  awful — for  the  luckless  table  steward 
invariably  went  wrong — that  we  used  to  try  to  get  to 
the  breakfast  table  late,  after  the  hot  tea,  hot  milk, 
hot  cup  melodrama  had  been  acted.  Sometimes  we 
arrived  in  time  to  find  him  sitting  in  silent  gloom, 
glowering.  He  was  plunged  in  a  terrible  taciturnity. 
The  cup  had  been  chilly!  Often  we  got  there  to  dis- 
cover that  he  was  waiting  in  sickening  expectancy  for 


54  The  Great  Wet  Way 

the  tea  that  had  been  lacking  in  fervour.  He  declined 
to  speak  to  us.  Once  I  am  prepared  to  testify  that  I 
saw  tears  of  vexation  coursing  down  his  cheeks.  I 
tried  personal  remonstration  with  the  steward.  I 
took  him  aside,  and  implored  him  for  all  our  sakes  to 
be  merciful,  and  to  see  that  the  cup  was  well  baked. 

"  It's  'ard  to  'eat  a  cup,"  was  his  invariable  excuse. 

This  passenger  was  travelling  alone.  He  had  left 
his  wife  and  children  in  Passaic — lucky  folks  1  Pos- 
sibly he  was  a  fond  father,  and  a  doting  husband — 
except  at  breakfast  time,  that  terrifying  period  when 
the  obsession  of  hot  tea,  hot  milk,  hot  cup  made  a 
fiend  of  him.  I  can  imagine  his  wife  saying  as  she 
saw  his  ship  sailing  away:  "Now  at  last  we  can 
un-heat  the  cups  1 " 

Breakfast  is  a  very  trying  meal  anywhere.  On 
board  ship  it  is  particularly  cranky.  Most  people 
feel  a  trifle  fractious  after  having  been  mewed  up  all 
night  in  a  closet.  They  are  compelled  to  enter  the 
saloon  and  talk  platitudes  under  these  circumstances. 
It  always  pains  me  to  see  people  dining  at  breakfast 
time — partaking  hungrily  of  half  a  dozen  indigesti- 
ble courses,  while  I  look  askance  at  a  cup  of  coffee. 
I  hate  my  fellow  creatures  at  breakfast  time.  I  can 
scarcely  conceal  my  contempt  for  the  slip  of  a  girl 
who  gets  away  with  a  cereal,  a  ham  omelette,  a  beef- 
steak, buckwheat  cakes,  fruit,  jam,  and  hot  bread,  and 
then  complains  that  she  never  has  an  appetite  on 
board  ship.  I  am  always  itching  to  insult  the  portly 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  55 

matron  who  reels  off  an  order  for  fish,  "kidney 
stoo,"  ham-and-eggs,  cold  tongue,  pressed  beef,  and 
fancy  breads,  wondering  all  the  time  why  she  can't 
enjoy  her  food  like  other  people  I  They  promise 
themselves  a  tonic  when  they  land — a  tonic,  mind 
you,  not  an  emetic  1 

This  sort  of  thing  does  not  worry  me  a  bit  on  land. 
At  sea,  it  always  seems  indecent,  and  unfit  for  publi- 
cation. Hungry  people  in  the  morning  look  so 
brazen,  and  so  unashamed.  I  often  wonder  why 
these  breakfast-diners  do  not  take  wine  with  their 
food,  or  appear  in  evening  dress.  They  look  so  silly, 
in  morning  garb,  eating  a  hearty  dinner  for  break- 
fasti  A  coarse  dinner  is  surely  a  coarse  break- 
fast. These  people  are  always  talking  ailments.  They 
dote  on  ailments.  They  can  discuss  the  fifty-seven 
varieties  of  dyspepsia,  and  can  paint  pleasing  pictures 
of  life  at  Carlsbad  and  Marienbad — those  resorts  of 
penitent  gluttons.  They  go  everywhere  for  their 
health.  They  are  on  board  for  their  health.  They 
know  the  precise  effect  of  different  brands  of  sea-air 
on  their  system.  This  resort  is  bracing;  that  is  ener- 
vating; a  third  is  a  tonic;  a  fourth  is  anti-this-or- 
the-other.  You  make  a  mental  list  of  the  places  they 
have  never  visited,  and  resolve  to  visit  them.  They 
must  be  the  desirable  resorts. 

You  meet  the  weirdest  kinds  of  gastronomic  tastes 
on  board  ship,  and  you  marvel  at  the  abnormality  of 
seemingly  normal  men  and  women.  A  year  ago, 


56  The  Great  Wet  Way 

there  was  a  very  pretty  girl  from  St.  Louis,  sitting 
beside  me  at  table.  She  was  as  nice  as  she  was  pretty, 
but  she  was  insane.  She  was  insane  on  the  subject  of 
Camembert  cheese.  She  had  it  for  breakfast;  at 
luncheon  she  mixed  it  with  her  prunes;  at  dinner  she 
ate  it  in  meringue  and  with  ice-cream.  She  was  very 
fond  of  it  with  jam  and  marmalade. 

About  the  third  day  out,  I  began  to  dread  Camem- 
bert cheese.  You  may  say  that  I  need  not  have 

looked  at  this  girl — nobody  asked  me  to  look. 

That  is  quite  true.  Camembert  cheese,  however,  can 
be  perceived  without  the  eyes,  and  usually  it  is.  She 
was  very  particular  about  it.  She  liked  it  ripe,  and 
mellow — and  at  that  stage  Camembert  is  at  its  chat- 
tiest. She  refused  to  accept  it  if  it  were  hard  and 
silent.  She  was  a  well-bred  girl.  We  used  to  dis- 
cuss the  classics,  while  she  toyed  with  the  Camembert, 
and  this  grew  to  be  somewhat  unpleasant.  In  fact,  I 
began  to  wish  that  I  had  been  a  plumber,  and  could 
have  talked  drains.  Many  a  time  did  I  endeavour  to 
joke  her  away  from  her  Camembert  fetich.  The 
scheme  never  worked.  She  laughed  with  me,  and  was 
jocund  and  light-hearted,  but  she  was  eating  Camem- 
bert cheese  until  we  landed  in  New  York,  and  is 
probably  eating  it  now. 

Never  expect  to  escape  from  the  fiend  who  has 
three  soft-boiled  eggs  broken  into  a  large  glass  gob- 
let, under  your  very  eyes.  You  will  never  be  able  to 
avoid  this  barbarian,  for  he  is  on  board  every  steam- 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  57 

ship.  Sometimes  I  think  that  steamship  companies 
engage  him  just  to  make  passengers  feel  that  they  are 
really  at  sea.  At  any  rate,  he  always  seems  to  be 
actuated  by  a  solemn  sense  of  duty ! 

If  you  are  feeling  quite  well,  the  boiled-egg  fiend 
does  not  suggest  such  marked  criminality;  if  you  are 
pettishly  inclined  at  breakfast,  you  cut  him  dead,  and 
refuse  to  respond  to  his  perfunctory  "  Good-morn- 
ing!" He  orders  the  three  eggs  soft-boiled,  and 
then  requests  the  steward  to  break  them  into  a  goblet, 
while  he  looks  on  unabashed.  The  splash  of  those 
eggs  as  they  fall,  with  a  sickening  thud,  into  the  gob- 
let becomes  so  familiar  to  you  that  you  would  know 
it  anywhere.  They  are  then  stirred  up  with  a  lump 
of  butter  and  pepper  and  salt  until  the  goblet  is  yel- 
low, opaque,  sticky  and  hideous.  There  is  triumph  on 
the  face  of  this  fiend  as  he  begins  his  operations — a 
triumph  like  that  popularly  believed  to  be  felt  by 
little  Jack  Horner,  when  he  put  in  his  thumb,  and 
pulled  out  a  plum,  and  said  "What  a  good  boy 
am  I!" 

I  believe  in  friendship,  and  suppose  that  I  have  as 
many  friends  as  most  men  who  can  afford  such  luxur- 
ies. But  if  I  caught  my  best  friend — companion  of 
my  childhood's  days — associate  of  my  adolescence — 
sitting  before  a  goblet  of  stagnant  soft-boiled  eggs  on 
board  ship,  I  should  promptly  decide  that  henceforth 
we  meet  as  strangers.  There  are  some  things  that  it 
is  difficult  to  forgive  and  forget. 


58  The  Great  Wet  Way 

One  of  the  tenets  of  my  gastronomic  faith  is  that 
eggs  should  never  be  eaten  in  public  at  any  time. 
You  may  guess  that  your  friend  has  had  eggs  for 
breakfast  by  the  traces  they  always  leave — traces  that 
can  never  be  mistaken.  But  it  is  better  not  to  know 
for  sure — not  to  catch  him  in  flagrante  dellctu. 

On  one  of  the  big  German  boats,  where  every  meal 
served  in  the  saloon  is  a  banquet,  and  where  you  are 
plied  with  all  the  delicacies  that  human  ingenuity  has 
invented,  passengers  were  confronted  with  what  was 
called  a  "Ritz-Carlton  restaurant"  on  the  upper  deck. 
People  could  patronise  this  restaurant  if  they  cared 
to  do  so,  by  paying  enormous  prices  for  the  privilege. 
The  fare  in  the  saloon  was  so  sumptuous,  however, 
that  you  could  not  conceive  of  any  epicure  demanding 
anything  better.  But  this  "  Ritz-Carlton  restau- 
rant" was  supposed  to  be  better  because  it  involved 
extra  cost.  And  it  was  always  crowded  I  One's 
sense  of  humour  was  immensely  tickled  by  the  osten- 
tatious enthusiasm  for  the  "  Ritz-Carlton,"  and  the 
particular  pains  that  the  patrons  thereof  took  to  let 
you  know  that  they  really  "  couldn't  stand "  the 
saloon. 

"  I  never  did  like  a  general  dining-room,"  said  the 
wife  of  a  big  "dry-goods"  man  (she  was  big,  the 
man  was  big,  and  the  "  dry-goods  "  were  big) .  "  One 
doesn't  like  to  sit  with  a  hungry  crowd,  all  so  food-y 
and  oppressive.  One  loves  to  be  exclusive  sometimes. 
I  am  taking  all  my  meals  at  the  Ritz-Carlton — even 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  59 

breakfast.  Expensive  ?  Of  course.  The  price  keeps 
the  rabble  out." 

There  were  gold  knives  and  forks  in  this  restau- 
rant; gold  cruets,  gold  fruit-dishes.  I  do  not  know 
if  any  of  the  utensils  were  studded  with  precious 
stones,  but  I  daresay  that  they  were.  In  mid-ocean, 
the  diners  in  the  "  Ritz-Carlton  "  were  observed  in  all 
the  ecstasy  of  "  full  evening  dress  "  wending  their 
way  along  the  slippery  decks  to  this  Mecca.  The 
women  wore  low-cut  gowns,  and  huge  hats  pinnacled 
t/ith  feathers ;  the  men  were  arrayed  in  all  the  glories 
of  Solomon.  On  a  foggy  night  in  "  the  roaring  for- 
ties "  this  struck  me  as  so  humorous,  that  I  was  happy 
for  the  evening.  The  diners  sat  for  hours  in  their  de- 
lightful exclusiveness. 

"  I  love  it,"  one  Johnnie  confided  in  me,  as  he 
emerged  from  his  floating  lobster-palace,  to  the  cold, 
wet,  wobbly  deck.  "  It  makes  me  think  that  I'm  in 
dear  old  Forty-Second  Street,  after  the  show." 

"  Why  do  you  bother  to  go  three  thousand  miles 
away  from  dear  old  Forty-Second  Street,  if  you  love 
it  so,  and  you  own  such  an  affectionate  nature?"  I 
ventured  to  ask. 

"  Just  to  love  it  all  the  more  when  I  return  to  it," 
he  said.  "  Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder, 
and  in  the  meantime,  this  reminds  me  of  it.  It  is  so 
like  it — the  lights,  the  beautifully  gowned  women, 
the  jewels,  the  flowers,  the  music,  and  the  civili- 
sation." 


60  The  Great  Wet  Way 

The  civilisation!  I  gasped.  Here  was  a  human 
object  who  could  find  no  grandeur  in  the  imprecations 
of  the  usually  indignant  Atlantic;  who  could  weave  no 
imaginings  from  the  endless  waste  of  sky  and  sea  in 
all  their  variations;  who  could  think  no  marvels  of 
the  human  skill  that  had  made  possible  this  vast  asso- 
ciation of  men  and  women  in  the  midst  of  this  heav- 
ing expanse  of  water.  Here  was  a  mental  pigmy 
whose  only  object  in  travel  was  to  awaken  memories 
of  Forty-Second  Street,  and  whose  soul  soared  no 
higher  than  a  lobster  palace ! 

The  restaurant  on  this  ship  brought  out  eccentrici- 
ties in  a  thick  rash.  There  were  passengers  on  board 
who  used  to  peep  in  awe  through  the  windows  of  the 
"  Ritz-Carlton  restaurant,"  and  talk  in  amazement 
of  its  garish  splendours.  There  were  first-cabin  pas- 
sengers who  said  they  had  the  "  steerage  feeling  "  be- 
cause they  were  doomed  to  the  mere  banquets  in  the 
saloon,  where  there  were  no  gold  dishes,  no  gold 
cruets,  no  gold  fruit  plates.  Many  who  had  paid 
fabulous  prices  for  accommodation  felt  like  beggars 
as  they  watched  the  glitter  of  luxury  in  this  "  latest 
innovation."  Nobody  amounted  to  anything  unless 
he  had  "  shown  himself "  at  the  "  Ritz-Carlton." 
The  restaurant  established  another  "  class,"  and  a 
very  rigidly  defined  class.  There  were  intellectual 
people  on  this  ship — poets,  dramatists,  novelists,  lec- 
turers. They  were  quite  "  out  of  it."  They  did  not 
take  their  meals  from  gold  plates  in  the  "  Ritz-Carl- 


Partaking  of  Nourishment  61 

ton."  They  partook  of  a  feeble  dinner  of  twelve 
courses  in  the  meagre  dining-room.  They  were  hum- 
ble. They  felt  the  sting  of  their  humility. 

There  were  even  "  Ritz-Carlton  "  children  who 
wouldn't  condescend  to  "  play "  with  mere  saloon 
children.  They  were  delightful  little  snobs.  The 
"  Ritz-Carlton  "  juveniles  were  so  atrociously  funny 
that  I  am  hoping  I  may  meet  some  of  them  when  they 
have  grown  up.  They  will  assuredly  be  gorgeously 
entertaining.  These  mites  talked  of  nothing  but 
money  and  gold  and  diamonds.  One  sweet  little  girl 
had  been  promised  a  hundred  dollars  if  she  abstained 
from  eating  candy  during  the  trip — instead  of  being 
threatened  with  a  good  spanking  if  she  did  eat  it. 

And  not  very  far  from  this  gathering  of  obtrusive 
money-vulgarians  was  the  steerage,  with  its  herd  of 
crushed  yet  hopeful  exiles ;  its  mob  of  misery-steeped 
wretches ;  its  gangs  of  palpitating  expatriates — a  dull, 
drab  streak  of  poverty  on  a  luminous  picture  of  lurid 
luxury.  The  contrast  was  so  sharp  that  it  arose  and 
smote  you.  There  was  the  one  extreme  and  there 
was  the  other — and  which  was  the  more  pitiful? 
They  were  both  collected  on  the  same  bits  of  wood 
and  iron ;  both  tossed  by  the  same  waves  and  billows 
at  the  same  time — yet  as  distant  as  though  belonging 
to  two  different  worlds.  Mercifully  separated,  how- 
ever! The  Johnnie  who  hankered  for  Forty-Second 
Street  could  not  see  the  burly  Teuton  at  the  other  end 
of  the  boat,  anxious  to  carve  a  belated  career  for  him- 


62 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


self  out  of  the  marble  blocks  of  the  New  World.  The 
dingy,  soiled  and  tousled  Russian,  crouched  in  his 
niche  in  the  steerage,  did  not  perceive  his  proximity 
to  the  loiterer  in  "  full  evening  dress  "  clamouring  for 
the  garishness  of  metropolitan  inertia  on  an  ocean 
steamship.  They  were  so  near,  but  yet  so  far. 

Comedy  and  tragedy  on  the  ocean-liner,  as  in  real 
life,  jostle  each  other  perpetually.  They  tread  on 
each  other's  corns  even  in  the  dining  saloon,  where 
you  would  be  willing  to  swear  that  humour  alone 
exists  in  gayest  form. 


IV 
WHO'S  WHO   ON   BOARD 


HE  passenger  list  is 
an  important  document 
setting  forth  barely 
and  with  laconic  precis- 
ion the  names  of  your 
associates  on  the  ocean 
trip.  All  biographical 
details  are  withheld 
so  that  you  are  kept 
busy  during  the  entire 
voyage  ferreting  them 
out.  The  passenger 
list  is  a  very  old  institution,  and  it  has  not  kept 
pace  with  modern  improvements.  It  is  really  the 
same  to-day  as  it  was  twenty  years  ago — the  same  un- 
communicative and  unsatisfactory  chronicle  of  mere 
names.  Now,  if  you  read  your  Baedeker,  you  will 
discover  that  the  compiler  of  that  flippant  and  excit- 
ing record  is  not  satisfied  with  merely  recording  the 
names  of  the  hotels  in  the  towns  of  visited  countries, 
and  leaving  you  in  hopeless  befuddlement  at  the  end- 
less array  of  resting-places.  Baedeker  places  an  as- 
terisk opposite  each  hotel  that  it  guarantees  to  be 
first-class.  That,  of  course,  is  a  great  relief.  You 


64  The  Great  Wet  Way 

read  that  Baedeker  declares  a  certain  hotel  to  be  first- 
class  and — er — you  don't  go  there. 

But  on  the  passenger  list  no  names  are  asterisked. 
The  steamship  companies  do  not  guarantee  the  qual- 
ity of  their  passengers,  which  it  would  be  an  easy 
thing  to  do.  Instead  of  consulting  a  judicious 
"  Who's  Who "  and  carefully  labelling  any  pas- 
sengers who  have  done  anything  that  wasn't  worth 
doing,  they  pay  no  attention  to  pedigree  or  to  social 
standing.  The  passenger  list  is  distinctly  inferior  to 
Baedeker.  It  is  very  cold,  dispassionate,  and  formal. 
The  very  best  people  are  set  down  cheek-by-jowl  with 
the  nobodies.  There  is  not  a  line  on  any  passenger 
list  to  show  that  Mr.  Jones  has  paid  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  for  a  suite  on  the  upper  deck.  His  name  is  as 
unmarked  as  is  that  of  Mr.  Smith  who  is  occupying  a 
berth  in  a  stateroom  containing  four,  and  who  is  pay- 
ing the  minimum  rate.  Such  democracy  is  of  course 
deplorable.  At  the  opera,  for  instance,  you  know  un- 
erringly where  anybody  of  any  consequence  is  sitting. 
Exclusive  people  are  properly  treated — by  having 
their  exclusiveness  painlessly  removed.  But  on  an 
ocean-liner  you  can  be  a  multi-millionaire,  if  you  like, 
and  the  passenger  list  will  not  announce  the  fact. 

This  is,  naturally,  very  galling.  It  is  unbearable. 
What  is  the  use  of  being  anybody  if  nobody  knows 
it?  Why  extract  a  week  from  the  delightful  publicity 
of  land-life,  and  sink  it  in  the  obscurity  of  ocean  life? 
Lights  that  are  hidden  under  bushels  are  very  sad 


Who's  Who  on  Board  65 

lights  indeed.     To  be  nobody  for  a  whole  week  is 
dispiriting. 

However,  efforts  have  been  made  to  circumvent  the 
passenger  list,  and  with  some  show  of  success.  By 
means  of  these  well-conceived  efforts  it  is  possible  to 
obtain  some  faint  inkling  of  the  value  of  your  asso- 
ciates. You  see  on  the  passenger  list,  for  instance: 
"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robinson,  and  three  children,"  and 
you  sniff  contemptuously  at  the  bald  and  poverty- 
stricken  announcement,  for  below,  you  discover  some- 
thing far  more  winning,  and  worth  while,  in  this 
style : 

Mr.   Ponsonby-Snooks 

and  valet 
Mrs.  Ponsonby-Snooks 

and   maid 

Miss  Margaret  Ponsonby-Snooks 
Miss   Pianjela  Ponsonby-Snooks 
Master   Ormsby   Ponsonby-Snooks 

and  two  nurses 

and    governess. 

Now  that  catches  your  eye  immediately.  You  can- 
not overlook  it.  It  has  warmth,  colour,  fervour,  and 
appreciation.  It  is  "  getting  even  "  with  the  pas- 
senger list,  with  a  vengeance.  Mr.  Ponsonby-Snooks, 
having  tripped  across  the  Atlantic  for  years,  has  real- 
ised of  course  that  something  must  be  done,  for  his 
wife's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  those  dear  children, 
on  whose  transparent,  juvenile  minds  impressions  are 
made  that  can  never  be  erased.  Your  first  day, 


66  The  Great  Wet  Way 

as  the  steamer  settles  down  to  business,  is  to  sort  out 
the  Ponsonby-Snookses,  as  important  people  worth 
cultivating,  if  they  will  allow  you  to  cultivate  them. 
You  forget  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robinson  and  three  chil- 
dren "  who  are  plebeian  enough  to  cross  the  ocean 
without  maids  and  valets — who,  in  fact,  are  "  doing 
the  thing  "  cheaply,  which  is  always  contemptible  in 
the  eyes  of  those  who  are  doing  it,  perhaps,  more 
cheaply. 

It  is,  of  course,  rather  difficult  to  get  the  Ponsonby- 
Snooks  party  properly  sifted  out.  Perhaps  you  spend 
an  entire  morning  talking  with  the  passenger  whom 
you  have  labelled  "  Ponsonby-Snooks  " ;  you  have  de- 
cided that  he  is  delightfully  free-and-easy,  and  charm- 
ingly democratic  for  one  so  potent,  when  it  is  borne  in 
upon  you  that  the  person  you  have  buttonholed  is  Mr. 
Ponsonby-Snooks'  valet.  This  is  irritating,  and  you 
promptly  cut  the  valet,  who  is  inclined  to  be  fearfully 
friendly  next  time  you  meet  him  on  deck.  The  effort 
to  discover  Mrs.  Ponsonby-Snooks  may  be  equally 
trying.  After  having  promenaded  the  deck  all  morn- 
ing with  the  lady — as  you  fondly  thought — being 
careful  to  let  all  the  other  passengers  see  you,  it  gets 
on  your  nerves  to  learn  that  you  have  been  prowling 
around  with  the  nurse.  There  is  nothing  more  pros- 
trating to  the  really  democratic  mind  I 

You  are  quite  sure  that  you  are  no  snob,  but  you 
do  like  to  know  the  best  people.  You  are  all 
crowded  together  on  an  ocean  steamer,  and  there  is 


Who's  Who  on  Board  67 

no  reason  on  earth  why  you  should  not  improve  the 
shining  hour.  If  you  become  very  friendly  with  them 
at  sea,  you  will  be  able  to  visit  them  on  land.  This 
exquisite  fallacy  is  always  rife  on  an  Atlantic  liner. 
It  is  exploded  every  time  you  meet  your  chatty  sea- 
friends  in  town,  and  they  cut  you  as  dead  as  a  door- 
nail, but  it  grows  again — like  a  wart — next  time  you 
cross. 

People  with  titles  of  any  kind,  wear  them  pleas- 
ingly on  the  steamship.  There  is  the  baronet,  whose 
handle  comes  out  well  on  the  list,  and  there  are  all 
sorts  of  American  titles.  There  is  the  "  Hon."  So- 
and-So,  which  is  misleading  but  nice;  there  are 
"Judge"  and  "Colonel"  and  "General"  and 
"  Doctor."  The  last  is  lowest  in  the  social  scale,  for 
it  may  apply  to  a  chiropodist,  or  to  an  ordinary  den- 
tist, but  is  distinctly  better  than  nothing  at  all  on  a 
passenger  list  that  is  depressingly  mute  on  the  subject 
of  calling  and  standing. 

For  two  whole  days  the  passengers  are  busy  with 
the  passenger  list.  They  sit  poring  over  it,  and  try- 
ing to  "  place  "  people.  Often  as  you  pass,  you  hear 
somebody  say,  "  Oh,  that  must  be  So-and-So,"  and  a 
mark  is  made  opposite  your  name.  Your  secret  is 
discovered.  You  see  people  running  around  and 
reading  the  labels  on  unoccupied  steamer-chairs,  and 
sometimes  waiting  until  the  occupants  thereof  appear. 
If  you  should  happen  to  be  sitting  in  the  "  Judge's  " 
steamer-chair,  you  will  be  looked  upon  as  the 


68 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


"  Judge  "  until  that  gentleman  appears  to  rout  you 
out. 

A  great  difficulty  is  that  labels  on  steamer-chairs 
are  hidden  when  people  are  sitting  on  them.  This  is 
a  bitter  disappointment.  You  cannot  go  up  to  a  per- 
fect stranger  and  say,  "  Kindly  move  your  head  as  I 
want  to  see  who  you  are."  You  are  obliged  to  wait 
until  meal-time,  when  he  usually  goes  below.  When 
there  is  a  crowd  on  board,  this  is  very  annoying.  I 
do  not  say  that  it  is  impossible,  for  nothing  is  impos- 
sible if  you  set  your  mind  to  it.  If  steamship  com- 
panies cared  to  do  the  right  thing,  they  would  have 
the  legend  on  each  steamer-chair  placed  high  above 
the  head  of  the  passenger — and  illuminated  at  night. 
This  innovation  would  be  dearly  appreciated  by  a 
crowd  that  is  largely  composed  of  the  type  popularly 
known  as  "  rubberneck." 

It  is  wonderful  how  quickly  passenger  gossip  travels 
on  the  liner.  A  mere  hint  as  to  the  identity  of  a  cer- 
tain person  is  known  in  a  few  minutes  from  one  end 
of  the  ship  to  the  other.  Unintentionally,  you  your- 


Who's  Who  on  Board  69 

self  may  spread  gossip,  and  realise  afterwards  your 
infamy.  I  saw  a  young  couple  very  much  engrossed 
in  each  other.  Her  wedding  ring  looked  new,  and 
just  for  the  sake  of  saying  something,  I  remarked  to 
a  comrade,  "  Look  at  that  honeymoon  couple.  They 
seem  happy." 

That  man  and  woman  had  never  done  me  any 
harm.  Yet  I  had  labelled  them.  All  that  morning, 
nobody  talked  of  anything  but  that  honeymoon 
couple.  People  got  up,  and  walked  past  them  just 
to  take  a  look.  All  sorts  of  romances  were  woven 
around  them.  She  was  an  heiress,  and  he  was  elop- 
ing with  her.  Everybody  remembered  reading  about 
them  in  the  papers  the  day  before  we  sailed.  Their 
case  was  threshed  out  for  hours.  Unfortunately  they 
were  not  honeymooners.  She  was  married,  with  a 
husband  on  board,  ill  in  his  stateroom.  He  was  simi- 
larly situated  with  an  indisposed  wife.  The  four  of 
them  were  all  travelling  together,  and  the  non-ill 
ones  were  making  the  best  of  the  situation.  They 
had  to  explain  this.  The  explanation  was  forced 
upon  them  by  the  "  rubbernecks,"  instigated  by  my 
thoughtless  stupidity  1 

Honeymoon  couples  are  great  boons  to  the  ocean 
traveller.  All  the  world  loves  a  lover,  and  at  sea  all 
the  world  leads  him  a  nice  life!  One  would  think 
that  sensible  honeymooners — provided  that  they  exist 
— would  avoid  the  ocean  steamer  like  a  plague.  If 
they  reason  at  all,  they  probably  argue  that  a  week 


70  The  Great  Wet  Way 

spent  away  from  everybody  they  know  will  be  recrea- 
tive and  appropriate.  They  see  themselves  among  a 
crowd  of  strangers,  and  their  newly  wedded  hearts 
rejoice  and  are  glad  at  the  sweet  idea.  But  the  peo- 
ple they  know  are  not  half  as  bad  as  the  people  they 
don't  know.  Once  let  their  secret  be  guessed — and 
are  there  any  honeymooners  who  do  not  look  the 
part? — and  they  are  watched  and  criticised  and  gos- 
siped about  until  land  puts  them  out  of  their  misery. 
If  he  leaves  her  for  a  minute,  his  love  is  growing  cold; 
if  she  chats  with  an  unsuspecting  passenger,  she  is  a 
flirt  who  will  never  settle  down ;  if  he  sleeps  happily 
in  his  steamer-chair  by  her  side,  he  is  tiring  of  her;  if 
she  yawns  at  the  endlessness  of  the  day,  married  life 
is  beginning  to  pall;  if  his  voice  be  raised  as  he  talks 
to  her  (he  may  be  advising  her  to  try  and  eat  some- 
thing at  luncheon) ,  he  is  developing  into  the  usual  cut- 
and-dried  husband;  if  she  be  too  indisposed  to  care 
much  how  she  looks,  she  is  learning  how  to  disen- 
chant a  husband;  if  he  doesn't  call  her  "  tootsy,"  he  is 
a  cold-blooded  wretch;  if  she  looks  serious  and 
gloomy,  she  is  learning  that  marriage  is  a  failure. 

One's  heart  bleeds  for  the  honeymooners  on  board 
ship,  and  there  are  so  many  of  them,  all  trying  to  look 
usual,  and  never  succeeding.  In  a  crowded  town, 
their  lot  would  be  a  happier  one  than  it  is  on  the  ship, 
where  people  are  aching  for  romance,  and  are  bound 
to  weave  something  of  the  sort  around  the  honey- 
mooners. They  analyse  the  poor  young  bride's 


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Who's  Who  on  Board  71 

"  trousseau,"  and  wonder  what  sort  of  clothes  she 
will  wear  when  he  has  to  pay  for  them ;  they  are  anx- 
ious to  know  when  he  will  discover  that  she  dyes  her 
hair  and  makes  up  her  face;  he  must  have  married 
her  for  her  money;  or  she  took  him  because  he  was 
her  last  chance. 

The  honeymooners  cannot  please  the  passengers. 
Sometimes,  I  really  think  that  they  try.  Gossip  runs 
high,  and  it  is  inexhaustible.  If  the  honeymooners 
own  important  names,  and  their  wedding  has  been 
chronicled  in  the  daily  papers,  people  rack  their 
brains  to  recall  the  details.  Poor  honeymooners !  The 
storm  rages  around  them,  and  they  cannot  escape  it. 
There  is  no  shelter.  If  they  talk  to  stray  people, 
they  are  pestered  with  questions,  and  their  remarks 
are  reported  to  the  other  passengers.  We  know  all 
that  there  is  to  know  about  them,  and  imagine  the  rest. 
Kind  passengers  smile  affectionately  at  them;  even 
the  Captain  is  subdued  with  gentle  deference.  The 
Captain  feels  responsible  for  this  honeymoon,  and  he 
is  awfully  nice  and  attentive.  The  purser  and  the 
doctor — sometimes  brusque — are  never  brusque  to 
the  honeymooners.  They  are  the  ship's  "  stars," 
compelled  to  twinkle,  when  they  would  love  to  be 
obscured  by  some  thick,  protecting  cloud. 

Honeymooners  are  treated  as  though  they  were  in- 
valids, or  people  with  some  fatal  disease.  Passengers 
could  not  possibly  be  more  attentive  to  unfortunates 
irrevocably  afflicted  with  some  incurable  malady  than 


72 

they  are  to  the  honeymooners.  The  honeymooners 
have  run  away  from  all  their  old  friends  in  quest  of 
seclusion.  They  find  themselves  confronted  with  new 
ones,  who  are  terribly  exacting,  and  whom  they  can- 
not flout.  For  while  you  can — and  do — give  your 
old  friend  a  piece  of  your  mind,  you  may  not  be 
candid  with  the  new  one.  It  is  the  new  friend  that 
makes  the  honeymooners  fractious. 

The  important  person  on  board  ship,  whose  im- 
portance has  not  been  passenger-listed,  is  not  satis- 
fied to  remain  unknown  for  seven  whole  days.  He 
may  have  undertaken  the  trip  for  rest — he  says  he 
has — but  is  not  restful  to  be  unrecognised.  It  is  dis- 
tinctly annoying, — one's  mind  must  be  serene.  He 
has  to  do  all  the  work  that  the  steamship  company 
should  have  done  for  him.  He  selects  a  gossipy 
passenger — which  is  not  as  difficult 
as  you  might  think — and  to  this  pas- 
senger he  tells  the  story  of  his  life. 
He  conceals  nothing,  and  does  him- 
self full  justice.  This  is  a  duty  that 
he  owes  to  himself.  The  information 
thus  obtained  is  immediately  spread 
all  over  the  ship,  and  the  important 
person  is  able  to  settle  down  to  mere 
enjoyment.  He  becomes  deliciously 
reticent  and  modest  with  passengers, 
wonders  how  they  know  so  much 
about  him,  and  declares  that  now-a- 


Who's  Who  on  Board 


73 


days  it  seems  quite 
impossible  to  travel 
incog! 

The  lady  who  has 
written  novels  of 
which  you  have 
never  heard  is  much 
sought  after  on 
board  ship.  The  news  of  her  alluring  avocation 
reaches  you  quickly.  You  ascribe  the  fact  that  you 
have  never  heard  of  her  novels  to  some  oversight. 
Later  on,  she  tells  you  that  she  has  not  been  "  prop- 
erly advertised,"  and  has  no  "  head  for  business." 
The  passengers  gaze  upon  her  with  awe.  Although 
everybody  writes  novels,  tradition  demands  the  awe 
that  was  called  forth  in  the  time  when  everybody 
didn't.  The  passengers  actually  begin  to  believe  that 
they  have  read  some  of  the  books  that  she  has 
never  written,  and  they  are  very  anxious  to  read 
her  next,  which  she  will  never  write.  This  lady 
is  always  seen  taking  notes  for  her  new  book. 
She  poses  on  deck  with  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  pencil. 
She  becomes  very  popular,  for  she  tells  every  pas- 
senger that  he  is  going  to  be  one  of  the  characters  in 
her  new  novel.  This  makes  a  great  hit.  So  would 
her  book,  if  every  passenger  appeared  in  it.  Long 
before  we  land  the  lady  enjoys  a  tremendous  vogue; 
the  stewards  dance  attendance  upon  her,  and  the 
officers  say  "  Good-morning  "  when  they  see  her. 


74 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


You  can  generally  tell  important  passengers  by  the 
demeanour  of  the  officers.  The  doctor  and  the  pur- 
ser doff  their  caps  and  say,  "  Nice  day,"  to  important 
passengers.  Importance  is  a  good  thing,  say  what 
you  will,  and  it  is  easy  to  acquire  on  the  ocean,  where 
you  practically  begin  life  afresh,  leaving  your  hideous 
past,  your  unadmiring  friends,  and  your  unappre- 
ciative  relatives  on  shore.  The  absence  of  relatives 
gives  a  new  zest  to  life.  Who  can  be  important  with 
a  set  of  abominable  relatives,  all  with  hatefully  re- 
tentive memories,  determined  to  keep  a  man  down — 
where  he  belongs  ? 

Then  there  is  the  playwright  with  a  trunk  full  of 
plays  that  have  never  been  produced.  He  becomes, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  poor  chap,  quite  bril- 
liantly important.  He  knows  all  the  managers,  and 
calls  them  all  by  their  Chris- 
tian names.  Every  manager  is 
just  crazy  to  produce  his  plays, 
but  they  will  not  agree  to  his 
terms.  He  sets  a  high  price  up- 
on himself,  and  what  man  who 
is  worth  his  salt  doesn't?  At 
the  concert  he  makes  a  speech, 
and  is  introduced  by  the  chair- 
man, as  "  The  eminent  play- 
wright in  our  midst."  Young 
girls  on  board,  with  stage 
aspirations,  sit  by  him,  and 


Who's  Who  on  Board  75 

coax  him  to  write  parts  for  them  in  his  next  play.  On 
one  occasion  a  wag  buttonholed  this  unproduced 
playwright,  and  offered  him  a  brilliant  suggestion. 
The  dramatist  had  been  very  loquacious  on  the  sub- 
ject of  his  trunk  full  of  plays,  all  good  in  their  way. 

"  You  want  to  make  money?  "  said  the  wag  insin- 
uatingly. "  Well,  I'll  tell  you  how.  Sell  your  plays 
cheap,  and  realise  immediately.  You  have  probably 
written  100,000  plays.  Sell  them  at  a  dollar  apiece. 
That  will  bring  you  in  $100,000,  which  is  a  goodly 


sum." 


Do  not  imagine,  however,  that  the  most  important 
people  on  board  are  those  that  chat  with  the  pas- 
sengers. That  is  not  so.  The  great  attraction  on  the 
steamer  is  the  exclusive  passenger  who  will  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  promiscuous  anybodies.  The  exclusive 
passenger  really  cannot  associate,  you  know,  with  any 
Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry  to  whom  he  has  not  been 
formally  introduced.  He  is  generally  one  of  a  party, 
and  the  members  of  this  party  hold  themselves  aloof 
from  the  "  dreadful  people  "  around. 

The  exclusive  passenger  fails  to  notice  you  as  you 
pass  by.  He  is  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  nowhere,  and 
walks  very  quickly,  with  nothing  in  view.  He  sits 
with  his  exclusive  tribe,  and  takes  no  part  in  any  of 
the  ship's  proceedings.  You  hear  that  he  is  a  mil- 
lionaire, and  are  delighted.  It  is  nice  to  be  on  the 
ship  with  millionaires,  even  if  they  snub  you.  Or, 
you  learn  that  he  is  one  of  the  "  Four  Hundred,"  and 


76 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


you  are  charmed.  The  women  in  the  party  wear 
dingy  clothes,  to  emphasise  the  fact  that  their  tem- 
porary and  undesired  associates  are  not  worth  dress- 
ing for ;  the  men  are  equally  abstemious  in  the  matter 
of  apparel. 

I  sat  opposite  one  of  the  alleged  members  of  the 
"  Four  Hundred  "  at  meals  during  one  trip.  She  was 
very  haughty.  On  my  right  side  was  a  "  variety  " 
lady,  covered  with  rouge  and  paste  diamonds,  who 
always  ordered  "  six  kinds  of  dessert "  at  the  same 
time,  and  was  very  hungry.  The  society  lady  looked 


at  us  both  as  though  we  were  mere  girls.  Sitting  so 
close  to  the  "  variety  "  lady,  I  suppose  that  the  glow 
of  her  rouge  suffused  me;  at  any  rate,  I  seemed  to 
be  with  her,  and  I  was  punished  accordingly.  Once 
I  said  "  Good-morning,"  but  it  was  not  heard. 

The  society  lady  used  to  hold  forth  to  the  com- 
panion on  her  right,  one  of  her  "  set."     Her  great 


Who's  Who  on  Board  77 

topic  of  conversation  was  the  way  in  which  grand- 
mother was  accustomed  to  eat  bananas.  Grand- 
mamma divided  the  skin  by  four  cuts,  and  made  a 
sort  of  water-lily  of  the  banana. 

The  rouged  "  variety  "  lady,  who  would  have  hated 
to  discuss  her  grandmother,  if  she  had  ever  owned 
one,  always  looked  most  uncomfortable.  She 
listened  in  awe.  It  seemed  wonderful  to  her  to  hear 
of  this  great  lady's  grandmother.  I  told  her  that, 
in  all  probability,  this  particular  grandmother  took  in 
washing,  and  possibly  ate  the  skins  of  the  bananas  in 
her  healthy  hunger,  but  she  did  not  think  I  was  at  all 
funny.  She  watched  the  society  dame  furtively,  and 
tried  to  make  a  hit  with  her  by  putting  on  more  rouge 
and  paste  diamonds  at  every  meal.  It  was  no  good. 
The  haughty  lady  was  completely  hedged  in  by  her 
own  exclusiveness,  and  would  never  even  pass  us  the 
mustard !  We  certainly  did  not  look  good  to  her.  Nor 
did  we  look  anything  at  all.  She  ignored  us  utterly,  as 
people  who  had  never  been  able  to  afford  the  cosy 
luxury  of  a  nice  dead  grandmother. 

The  aristocracy  of  money  counts  for  nearly  every- 
thing on  board,  and  as  it  is  so  easy  to  be  a  millionaire 
for  seven  days,  I  can  never  understand  why  every- 
body is  not  aristocratic.  On  land,  of  course,  it  is  dif- 
ferent, but  at  sea  you  can  be  as  rich  as  you  say  you 
are.  Moreover,  you  tell  so  many  fibs  on  the  ocean,  that 
one  more  or  less  can  make  no  difference.  It  is  no  use 
being  poor.  It  is  silly.  Nobody  wants  you  to  be 
poor.  It  is  quite  unnecessary.  Be  rich  the  instant  you 


78  The  Great  Wet  Way 

cross  the  gangplank;  your  creditors 
cannot  get  at  you;  your  bank  state- 
ment cannot  reach  you ;  you  cannot  be 
undone  for  you  are  undunned !  Spread 
the  report  that  you  are  "  simply  roll- 
ing," and  all  the  aristocratic  democrats 
will  love  you,  and  make  your  trip  one 
glad  song.  It  is  the  only  way  in  which 
you  will  ever  get  to  know  the  exclusive  people  on 
board,  or  savour  the  delights  of  affluence.  Moreover, 
you  have  all  your  land-life  in  which  to  be  poor. 

Exclusive  people  often  have  children.  This  may 
not  be  stylish,  but  they  have.  The  exclusive  child 
never  plays  with  the  other  children. 

"  Mother  told  me  not  to  speak  to  anybody,"  it 
says,  with  adorable  candour,  and  it  refuses  all  offers 
of  candy.  It  is  a  nice  little  thing. 

The  exclusive  people  seem  to  have  a  most  misera- 
ble time  enjoying  themselves.  They  do  not  talk  much 
among  themselves.  They  seem  to  be  studying  us 
all,  as  we  study  the  steerage.  They  have  never  seen 
anything  quite  like  us  before.  If  we  are  jolly,  they 
look  shocked  and  bored.  They  are  not  interested  in 
anything  at  all,  except  the  Captain.  They  appear  to 
have  "  secrets  "  with  the  Captain.  They  sit  at  the 
Captain's  table,  always.  I  have  never  yet  discovered 
how  exclusive  people  manage  it,  but  they  are  always 
comfortably  settled  at  the  Captain's  table.  They  ap- 
pear to  be  known  intuitively,  and  honoured  with  seats 


Who's  Who  on  Board  79 

near  the  king  of  the  ship.  Possibly  they  give  their 
pedigree  to  the  company  when  they  buy  their  tickets. 
It  has  always  been  a  mystery  to  me. 

The  Captain  is  usually  a  very  jolly  fellow,  and  a 
nice  companion,  and  one  always  feels  sorry  that  he 
has  to  entertain  the  exclusive  people.  It  must  be  a 
trying  ordeal.  Sometimes  he  seems  to  wriggle  out  of 
it,  but  not  often.  They  talk  to  him  very  affably,  and 
he  probably  knows  more  about  their  grandmothers 
than  the  grandmothers  ever  knew.  A  Captain's  life 
is  not  all  beer  and  skittles.  He  may  cherish  a  secret 
yearning  for  the  rougey-cheeked  variety  artist,  but 
cruel  convention  ties  him  to  the  lady  whose  grand- 
mother's specialty  was  peeling  bananas. 

Sometimes,  and  not  at  all  infrequently,  the  de- 
lightful odour  of  "  scandal  "  is  scented  on  board,  and 
then  we  do  enjoy  ourselves.  It  is  whispered  that  a 
certain  passenger  is  no  better  than  she  ought  to  be, 
and  then  we  do  sit  up  and  notice.  The  poor  thing 
happens  to  have  high  spirits,  and  she  declines  to 
mope.  An  awful  rumour  is  spread  that  she  smokes 
in  her  stateroom.  Somebody  passed  by  her  cabin, 
and  detected  the  tell-tale  cigarette  in  the  process  of 
being  whiffed.  Also  (and  this  is  whispered  in  dead 
secrecy)  the  steward  has  been  seen  carrying  cocktails 
to  her  room.  We  are  all  on  the  qui  vive.  What 
shall  we  do?  Shall  we  warn  people?  Shall  we 
cut  her  dead?  The  New  England  spinster  is  for  im- 
mediate action.  She  feels  that  she  owes  it  to  herself 


8o 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


and  to  Massachusetts.    Of  course,  the  refractory  pas- 
senger  is   a    foreigner.     American   women    do   not 
smoke  or  drink  cocktails.  They  all  say  so,  therefore 
it  must  be  true.    The  situation  is  exciting. 

The  object  of  this  discussion  is  contemptuously 
treated  by  all  the  women.  She  is  consequently  forced 
to  devote  all  her  time  to  the  men,  which  must  be  fear- 
fully galling.  They  flock  round  her  banner,  and  one 
would  actually  think  that  she  liked  it.  She  positively 
seems  to  do  so.  She  talks,  and  laughs,  and  prome- 
nades the  deck,  and  has  no  unoccupied  time  at  all 
which  must  be  really  dreadful.  The  lips  of  the 
women  curl  as  they  see  her.  The  creature  is  un- 
abashed. The  New  England  spinster  says  that  she 
wouldn't  be  in  her  boots  for  worlds!  As  the  New 
England  spinster  squeezes  into  a 
No.  7,  and  the  merry  lady  is  loose 
in  a  No.  3,  this  appears  to  be  an 
unnecessary  statement.  It  is  of 
course  merely  metaphorical. 

The  merry  lady  gives  the  ship 
something  to  talk  about,  and  the 
ship  is  really  grateful,  though  it 
doesn't  know  it.  There  is  nothing 
duller  than  a  crossing  without  scan- 
dal, and  among  the  many  innova- 
tions that,  I  trust,  the  steamship 
companies  will  introduce,  is  the  self- 
raising  scandal  that  can  be  enjoyed 


Who's  Who  on  Board  &i 

without  any  effort  of  the  imagination.  It  is  some- 
times difficult  to  brew  scandal  among  people  who  are 
usually  on  their  best  behaviour,  and  then  passengers 
are  at  a  dead  loss. 

Widows  are  awfully  nice  to  have  on  board.  The 
jolliest  people  on  the  boat  are  widows,  and  at  sea 
they  are  particularly  attractive.  At  sea,  also,  they 
are  invariably  "  wealthy  widows."  You  never  hear 
of  a  transatlantic  widow  who  is  poor.  She  is  al- 
ways living  on  her  ample  income,  and  is  free  from 
all  care.  If  you  cannot  weave  a  little  scandal  around 
the  wealthy  widow,  then  you  are  no  good  at  it  at  all. 
You  are  quite  lacking  in  imagination.  Widowhood 
gives  a  woman  a  cachet  on  the  ocean  steamer  that 
nothing  else  could  possibly  give  her,  and  it  is  her  own 
fault  if  she  does  not  enjoy  herself.  As  soon  as  the 
women  passengers  start  wondering  whether  she  has 
ever  really  been  married — and  that  is  but  a  matter 
of  a  few  hours — the  widow  realises  that  the  trip  is 
going  to  be  nice. 

Maids  and  valets  are  very  useful  on  board,  as  soon 
as  they  recover  from  mal  de  mer.  (They  are  usually 
very  ill,  and  for  a  long  time.)  They  are  useful,  be- 
cause they  talk.  They  are  funds  of  enticing  informa- 
tion, especially  when  they  belong  to  the  exclusive  peo- 
ple— and  they  generally  do.  The  mistress  says  noth- 
ing, but  the  maid  tells  the  truth!  The  master  is 
silent,  but  the  valet  discloses  all  that  it  is  necessary  to 
know !  On  one  trip  there  was  a  singularly  exclusive 


82  The  Great  Wet  Way 

lady  on  board,  and  she  despised  us  all.  But 
before  we  landed  we  knew  how  much  rent  she  paid, 
what  her  meat  bills  were,  who  catered  for  her  well- 
known  dinners,  and  whether  she  was  good  to  her 
mother.  We  knew,  furthermore,  that  she  often  had 
her  clothes  dyed;  that  when  she  was  alone  with  her 
husband,  they  never  partook  of  anything  more  luxu- 
rious than  chops  for  dinner;  that  her  "home  life" 
was  very  monotonous,  and  that  she  was  really  bored 
to  death. 

The  valet  and  the  maid  vied  with  each  other  in 
delivering  these  choice  bits  of  information.  It  would 
be  worth  the  while  of  any  writer  of  "  society  news  " 
to  cross  the  ocean.  The  salt  air  seems  to  inspire  the 
maids  and  valets.  I  have  heard  stories  on  the  ship 
worth  "  scare  heads  "  in  any  newspaper.  The  valets 
and  maids  travel  first-class,  and  time  hangs  heavily  on 
their  hands.  They  mingle  with  the  other  passengers 
and  are  marvellously  friendly.  At  first  they  conceal 
their  calling,  but  when  concealment  is  no  longer  pos- 
sible, they  make  the  best  of  it — like  the  wronged 
heroine  in  melodrama.  Somehow  or  other,  one 
can't  help  drawing  them  out — at  least  I  can't,  though 
I  know  it  is  most  reprehensible — and  when  once 
started,  they  are  as  gods  knowing  good  and  evil.  It  is 
shameful  to  listen  to  their  stories,  and  there  is  no 
excuse  for  it.  Still,  one  does  feel  more  cheerful  when 
it  is  positively  asserted  by  the  gentle  maid  that  the 
haughty  dame,  with  the  lorgnette,  who  has  been 


Who's  Who  on  Board  83 

snubbing  everybody,  sells  all  her  old  clothes  that 
won't  dye,  and  hits  her  husband  when  she  is  feeling 
lively.  It  seems  like  the  eternal  justice  of  things. 
And  after  all,  is  it  shameful  ?  On  land,  we  read  such 
things,  acquired  in  the  same  way.  At  sea,  we  ac- 
quire them  for  ourselves.  This  is  better  sport.  It 
is  the  difference  between  buying  nuts  already  cracked 
and  cracking  them  for  yourself.  Nurses  and  paid 
companions  are  not  of  much  use  on  board — I  mean, 
of  course,  to  the  passengers.  They  cannot  talk,  be- 
cause they  are  always  with  their  charges.  It  seems 
a  pity.  They  look  as  though  they  could  talk,  but 
their  time  is  always  taken  up  most  inconsiderately. 
What  becomes  of  all  the  dear  friends  you  meet  on 
board?  Goodness  only  knows.  For  seven  days  you 
have  been  so  vitally  interested  in  them,  so  keenly  at- 
tentive to  everything  they  had  to  say,  that  you  are 
firmly  convinced  you  can  never  quite  get  along  with- 
out them.  You  have  their  card,  and  they  have  yours. 
The  exchange  of  visiting  cards  on  an  ocean  steamer 
is  a  business  in  itself.  Yet 
you  rarely  see  them  again. 
You  think  of  them  differ- 
ently as  soon  as  you  are 
landed.  They  are  myths 
and  legends  of  the  phan- 
tom week  that  you  spent 

on    board — a    week    that 

ri         ,     ,  ,         . 
seems  like  a  dead  lapse  in 


84  The  Great  Wet  Way 

a  busy  life.  They  are  ghosts,  unsubstantial  pictures, 
dream  sketches — very  rarely  realities.  They  peopled 
a  few  strange  days  that  were  lopped  from  your 
activity. 

You  find  their  cards  in  some  forgotten  drawer,  and 
you  try  to  recall  them.  It  is  like  the  effort  to  re- 
member a  dream.  If  you  saw  them  again  you  would 
think  of  billows,  and  steamer-chairs,  and  rugs.  They 
fade,  like  photographic  proofs.  They  become  misty 
and  indistinct.  You  discover  an  old  passenger  list, 
and  wonder  "  who's  who."  Many  of  these  people, 
so  important  for  seven  days,  are  now  unrecognisable. 
The  vast  struggle  to  be  somebody  on  an,  ocean 
steamer  is  not  unlike  the  vaster  struggle  of  real  life 
on  land.  And  it  is  perhaps  just  as  bootless,  just 
as  foolish,  and  just  as  unstable.  At  the  end  of  a 
week  the  greatest  personage  on  the  steamer,  whom 
you  have  watched  and  studied  incessantly,  who  has 
given  zest  to  your  trip  and  food  to  your  mind,  is 
just  hallucination  I 


\v 


MAL   DE  MER 

N  land,  people 
are  not  mortally 
ashamed  of  their  ail- 
ments. They  do  not 
hush  up  their  colds, 
their  head-aches,  their 
tooth-aches,  their  dys- 
pepsia, and  their  nerv- 
ous prostration.  On 
the  contrary,  they  seem 
rather  proud  of  them. 
They  like  to  discuss 
them,  to  gloat  over 
them,  and  to  make  the 
most  of  them.  They 

analyse  every  symptom,  and  are  very  much  in- 
terested. You  frequently  meet  friends  who  talk  of 
nothing  else  but  their  health  disturbances.  You  can 
scarcely  get  in  a  word  edgeways,  and  it  often  happens 
that  you  rather  envy  them.  You  are  so  prosaically 
well,  and  they  are  so  entertainingly  ill!  It  is  pos- 
sible to  get  the  history  of  a  bad  cold,  from  its  in- 
ception to  its  conclusion.  Even  doctors  cater  to  the 

85 


86  The  Great  Wet  Way 

prevailing  fancy  for  ailments.  They  come  to  see 
you  with  delightful  stories  of  "  cases "  they  have 
just  left,  or  of  patients  to  whom  they  are  going. 

In  fact,  on  land,  fluctuations  in  health  are  topics  of 
conversation,  and  give  you  those  pleasant  thrills  that 
vary  the  monotony  of  life. 

On  the  Atlantic  Ocean  all  this  is  changed.  There 
is  an  ailment  that  is  peculiar  to  the  steamship, 
tremendously  popular,  and  full  of  all  sorts  of  possi- 
bilities and  kaleidoscopic  combinations.  Few  escape 
it  entirely.  On  land,  if  such  an  ailment  were  pos- 
sible, it  would  be  a  delicious  subject  for  eloquent 
comment,  and  the  newspapers  would  have  columns 
about  it.  At  sea,  by  some  strange  Atlantic  freak,  it 
is  a  theme  that  is  tabooed.  Its  victims  are  ashamed 
of  it.  They  try  to  conceal  it.  They  make  all  sorts 
of  excuses  when  discovered  in  its  throes.  Some 
regard  it  as  a  joke,  and  tease  the  unfortunates  who 
succumb  to  it.  Nobody  is  ever  proud  of  it.  It  is 
never  cherished  as  a  kind  of  household  pet — like 
influenza,  or  rheumatism,  and  the  ever-popular 
malaria.  Yet  when  you  have  it,  you  wish  that  you 
had  never  been  born,  and  are  perfectly  convinced  that 
you  are  about  to  die.  I  refer,  of  course,  to  seasick- 
ness, which  I  shall  henceforth  mention  as  mal  de 
mer,  because  I  think  that  term  is  more  stylish,  and 
far  less  objectionable. 

I  have  met  men  on  land  who  positively  insisted 
upon  being  credited  with  a  dangerous  cold.  They 


Mai  de  Mer 


seemed  to  hanker  for  it.  They  have  glared  at  me 
when  I  told  them  how  well  they  were  looking.  If  I 
had  hurled  insults  at  them  they  could  not  have  been 
more  indignant.  I  should  never  have  guessed  that 
they  had  anything  the  matter  with  them.  Yet  these 
men,  caught  in  the  very  act  of  mat  de  mer,  will  lie 
like  troopers.  They  will  swear  that  there  is  nothing 
amiss  with  them — more  than  a  slight  discomfort  due 
to  the  fatigue  of  "  getting  away."  They  will  change 
the  subject  immediately,  and  will  look  as  sheepish 
and  abashed  as  if  they  had  been  detected  in  the  act 
of  committing  some  particularly  contemptible  offence. 
You  miss  your  best  friend  at  the  ship's  luncheon — 
your  most  confidential  friend,  who  on  land  will  make 
a  bid  for  your  sympathy  if  he  suffers  from  a  twitching 
eyelid.  You  are  perfectly  aware  that  the  poor  chap 
is  laid  low  by  mat  de  mer,  for  you  had  noticed  at 
breakfast  that  he 
grew  pale  when  the 
steward  placed  two 
thoroughly  virtuous 
eggs  before  him, 
and  that  he  com- 
plained  bitterly 
about  all  the 
food.  But  when 
you  meet  him  later, 
he  has  nothing  to 
say.  H  e  appears 


88  The  Great  Wet  Way 

to  shelter  some  guilty  secret.  He  has  the  mien  of  a 
conscience-racked  forger,  and  the  embarrassed  air  of 
a  suspected  embezzler.  He  seems  to  dread  being 
questioned. 

"  Feel  better,  old  chap?  "  you  ask.  After  all,  you 
cannot  be  so  hard-hearted  as  to  omit  the  enquiry. 

He  fires  up.  "  Nothing  on  earth  the  matter  with 
me,"  he  declares.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 
I  didn't  come  to  luncheon  because  I  had  some  matters 
to  attend  to  in  my  stateroom.  I  never  felt  as  fit  in  my 
life.  Why— don't  I  look  all  right?" 

His  face  is  a  tender  shade  of  green,  and  his  eyes 
have  lost  their  lustre.  There  is  a  wistful,  melancholy 
lurking  around  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  you 
notice  that  his  hands  tremble.  Still,  you  feel  obliged 
to  tell  him  that  he  certainly  does  look  extremely  well, 
and  he  waits  for  this.  On  land,  if  you  perjured  your 
soul  so  crudely,  he  would  be  most  disgusted;  but  at 
sea,  he  has  a  horror  of  the  truth. 

The  jolly  youth  who  just  before  the  boat  sails  is 
conspicuously  on  deck  with  a  large  black  cigar  in  his 
mouth,  and  merry  jest  for  everybody  on  his  lips, 
whose  first  meal  is  enormous,  and  whose  sense  of 
humour  is  uproarious,  is  soon  upset  by  mat  de  mer. 
Poor  ladl  You  notice  that  the  large  and  terrifying 
black  cigar  is  speedily  eliminated  from  his  make-up; 
that  the  easy  jest  has  disappeared,  and  that  the  up- 
roarious vein  of  humour  has  been  replaced  by  a  mood 
of  tragedy.  The  bloom  of  youth  has  gone  from  his 


cheeks ;  his  brow  is  puckered  as  though 
in   anxious   thought,    and   his   eyelids 
droop.     When   the  gong  sounds   forj 
the  second  meal,  you  do  not  see  hinm 
bound  from  his  steamer-chair  in  juve-,J 
nile  alacrity.    The  poor  boy  has  a  sure 
case  of  mat  de  mer. 

"  Come  on,  Tom,"  says  his  little  sister,  who  is  as 
right  as  a  trivet,  "  the  gong  has  sounded,  and  I'm  as 
hungry  as  a  hunter.  I'm  going  to  have  some  fricasseed 
chicken,  sweet  potatoes,  and  some  rice  pudding  with 
plenty  of  cream  on  it.  There  is  always  good  cream 
on  the  first  day  out." 

You  observe  that  he  shivers  as  she  says  "  cream." 
He  has  kept  a  bold  front  at  the  mention  of  chicken, 
and  sweet  potatoes,  and  rice  pudding.  But  the  cream 
hurts.  It  is  very  painful. 

Now,  that  poor  sick  lad  will  not  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it.  He  will  not  tell  his  dear  little  sister  that 
he  is  dreadfully  uncomfortable,  and  that  the  mere 
thought  of  food  is  a  tragedy.  On  land,  he  would 
make  a  great  parade  of  his  symptoms.  At  sea,  he 
will  let  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud,  prey  on 
his  sallow  cheek.  He  says  that  it  is  awfully  jolly 
on  deck;  that  he  is  reading  a  most  engrossing  book 
(which  is  upside  down  in  his  lap)  ;  that  he  feels  lazy, 
and  that — well,  he  may  join  her  later.  It  would  be 
foolish  to  wait  for  him. 

It  is  the  sporty  old  boy,  in  the  jaunty  waistcoat, 


90  The  Great  Wet  Way 

and  the  spats  on  his  shoes,  who  makes  the  hardest 
fight.  He  has  never  understood  what  mat  de  mer 
means,  you  have  heard  him  say.  He  has  crossed 
the  Atlantic  forty-four  times,  and  feels  much  more 
at  home  at  sea  than  he  does  on  land.  What  he 
hates  is  a  calm,  monotonous  voyage.  There  is  no 
fun  in  the  sea,  when  it  is  like  a  mill-pond.  What  he 
prefers,  more  than  anything  else,  is  a  storm,  when  the 
boat  rocks  and  pitches,  and  one  has  to  be  strapped 
into  one's  berth  at  night.  He  has  crossed  the  At- 
lantic when  every  soul  on  board  was  terribly  ill,  in- 
cluding the  stewards  and  stewardesses,  and  even  the 
purser.  Yet  he  was  in  rugged  condition.  He  was 
the  only  passenger  at  table.  They  all  congratulated 
him.  They  thought  it  wonderful. 

This  old  salt  gradually  gets 
less  loquacious.  The  sea  is 
rather  rough,  and  the  rise  and 
fall  of  the  ship  can  be  distinctly 
felt.  There  is  nothing  quite 
like  the  rise  and  fall  of  a  ship. 
The  rise  and  fall  of  the  Roman 
Empire  must  have  been  very 
easy  compared  with  it.  When 
the  deck-steward  comes  round 
with  some  delicious  little 
smoked-salmon  sandwiches,  the 
old  salt  swears  at  him  very 
rudely,  in  the  presence  even 


'He  has  crossed  the  Atlantic  forty-five  times" 


Mai  de  Mer  91 

of  ladles.  He  was  napping,  he  says,  and  the  steward 
had  no  right  to  wake  him  up.  He  was  not  napping, 
but  he  is  comatose,  which  is  one  of  the  symptoms  I 
We  talk  to  him,  but  he  is  most  snappy.  He  says 
nothing  more  about  longing  for  a  storm,  and  is! 
silent  on  the  subject  of  the  famous  trip  when  he  was 
the  only  passenger  at  table. 

We  miss  him  from  his  accustomed  haunts  for  two 
whole  days.  There  is  a  vacant  steamer-chair  on  deck 
•. — which  would  be  pathetic  to  any  of  those  song- 
writers who  revel  in  vacant  chairs.  We  have  almost 
forgotten  that  he  was  a  passenger,  when  on  the  third 
day  he  reappears,  as  game  as  ever,  arrayed  in  the 
jaunty  waistcoat,  and  the  spats.  Does  he  tell  us  the 
truth,  which  is  that  he  has  been  alarmingly  ill,  and 
has  not  touched  food  since  we  saw  him  last?  Not  he. 
Perish  the  thought.  He  has  been  working  awfully 
hard  in  his  stateroom  at  some  accounts  that  he 
brought  on  board  with  him  to  straighten  out.  Busi- 
ness is  business,  he  says.  And  mal  de  mer  is  sea- 
sickness, we  could  add,  but  do  not.  We  let  the 
pleasing  fiction  pass,  and  do  not  dare  to  ask  questions. 
Here  is  a  man  who,  at  home,  probably  has  his  entire 
household  dancing  attendance  on  him  for  some  im- 
aginary ailment,  strenuously  refusing  to  admit  the 
popular  indisposition  of  the  ship. 

Once  I  crossed  with  a  Christian  Scientist.  I  am 
very  fond  of  Christian  Scientists  because  they  are 
such  optimistic  souls,  although  some  of  them  are 


92  The  Great  Wet  Way 

dreadful  bores.  This  gentleman  was  a  playwright, 
and  I  liked  to  believe  that,  as  he  denied  disease,  so 
he  denied  failure.  I  had  seen  some  of  his  failures, 
and  could  not  help  thinking  that  they  were  something 
more  than  errors  of  mortal  mind.  He  was  very 
chatty,  and  rather  anxious  for  my  conversion,  which 
I  considered  kind  of  him.  He  was  always  well,  he 
said,  and  his  wife,  once  an  invalid,  was  in  robust 
condition.  He  used  to  read  me  things  born  of  the 
Eddy  cult. 

"You  say  a  sore  throat  is  painful,"  he  said  one 
day,  "  but  that  is  impossible,  for  matter  without  mind 
is  not  painful.  The  sore  throat  simply  manifests 
your  belief  in  pain,  through  inflammation  and 
swelling ;  and  you  call  this  belief  a  sore  throat.  Now, 
administer  mentally  to  your  patient  a  high  affirmation 
of  truth  on  the  subject,  and  it  will  soon  cure  the  sore 
throat.  The  fact  that  pain  cannot  exist  where  there 
is  no  mortal  mind  to  feel  it,  is  a  proof  that  this  so- 
called  mind  makes  its  own  pain — that  is,  its  own 
belief  in  pain." 

One  beautiful  day  we  sat  together  on  the  deck. 
The  sun  was  shining,  and  the  air  was  warm,  although 
the  boat  did  pitch  a  bit.  All  the  passengers  were  very 
jolly;  nobody  minded  the  refractory  motion  of  the 
ship  except  the  Christian  Scientist.  He  was  very 
silent.  There  was  a  something  about  the  tint  of  his 
complexion  that,  in  any  ordinary  mortal,  might  have 
been  regarded  as  deathly  pallor.  Very  often  he 


Mai  de  Mer 


93 


sighed — at  least,  I  considered  that  he  sighed.  It  was 
certainly  what  mortal  mind  would  call  sighing. 

At  last  he  arose,  and  said  that  he  would  go  to  his 
room  for  an  hour  or  so.  There  was  some  error  to  be 
corrected,  he  said.  There  was  a  mortal  belief  to  be 
overcome.  Whenever  he  had  mortal  beliefs  on  land, 
he  retired  into  solitude,  and  worked  hard  to  counter- 
act them.  He  always  overcame  them.  So  he  went 
below,  looking  like  a  ghastly  impersonation  of  tnal 
de  mer.  When  he  returned,  he  was  quite  cheerful. 
He  admitted  that  he  had  felt  uneasy,  but  in  his  room 
he  had  talked  it  all  over  with  himself,  communed 
with  himself,  and  reasoned  himself  out  of  his  mortal 
belief.  If  there  had  been  really  rough  weather,  his 
mortal  belief  would  certainly  have  been  most  trouble- 
some. No  other  passenger 
had  the  ghost  of  such  a  belief. 

People  recover  very  rapidly 
from  tnal  de  mer,  as  a  rule, 
but  though  you  have  caught 
them  with  the  goods,  and 
they  know  it,  they  are  very 
icy  in  their  contempt  for  sub-' 
sequent  victims.  They  cannot 
understand  why  people  give 
in  so  readily.  They  have 
quite  forgotten  their  own 
prostration,  or  assign  it  to 
other  causes.  They  had  been 


94  The  Great  Wet  Way 

tired  out;  the  strain  of  prolonged  work  had  weakened 
them;  they  were  just  nervous  wrecks,  and  it  was  the 
sudden  change  that  laid  them  low.  They  are  also 
rather  amused  at  later  unfortunates.  How  people 
can  feel  ill  when  the  weather  is  so  gorgeous  and  the 
boat  so  steady,  they  cannot  comprehend.  People 
must  want  to  feel  ill.  And  so  on.  They  walk 
proudly  around,  emphasising  their  own  flourishing 
health.  The  men  smoke  pipes,  in  sheer  deviltry,  and 
the  women  disclose  candies  and  preserved  fruits  to 
the  lethargic  eyes  of  the  poor  rug-swathed  mummies. 
They  will  tell  their  friends  that  they  never  had  a 
more  delightful  trip  in  their  lives.  They  felt  no 
discomfort;  in  fact  they  hated  to  land. 

"I  have  made  a  study  of  mal  de  mer"  said  a 
doctor  on  board,  one  day,  as  we  strolled  around  to- 
gether. "You  understand,  of  course,  what  it  is? 
The  rolling  of  the  ship  disturbs  that  feeling  of  the 
relation  of  the  body  to  surrounding  objects  upon 
which  our  sense  of  security  rests.  The  nervous 
system  being  thus  subjected  to  a  succession  of  shocks 
and  surprises,  fails  to  effect  the  necessary  adjustments 
for  equilibrium.  Now  bear  that  in  mind.  Try  and 
avoid  those  shocks  and  surprises.  Adjust  your 
relationship  with  surrounding  objects.  When  the 
boat  rolls,  roll  with  it.  When  it  pitches,  pitch  with 
it.  Humour  it.  Don't  you  understand?  Don't  let 
the  boat  catch  you  napping  at  all.  It  is  really  very 
simple." 


Mai  de  Mer  95 

He  illustrated  his  remarks  by  appropriate  action. 
He  rolled,  and  he  pitched,  just  like  the  boat.  He 
was  most  instructive,  but — he  did  not  come  down  to 
dinner  that  night.  It  was  very  rough.  The  ship  not 
only  pitched  and  tossed,  but  it  indulged  in  a  sort  of 
hoochy-koochy  movement  that  raised  havoc  with  the 
equilibrium.  I  saw  the  erudite  student  of  mal  de  mer 
being  led  through  the  passage  to  his  stateroom  by  a 
sympathetic  steward.  He  was  not  attempting  to  put 
his  theories  into  practice.  He  neither  rolled  with  the 
boat,  nor  pitched  with  the  boat,  nor  hoochy-koochied 
with  the  boat.  He  just  leaned  helplessly  on  the 
steward,  who  dragged  him  along,  uttering  words  of 
hope  and  condolence — and  perchance  seeing  a  grate- 
ful tip  in  the  distance. 

The  remedies  for  mal  de  mer  are  so  numerous  that 
it  is  a  wonder  the  ailment  has  not  been  effectively 
routed.  They  are  as  numerous  as  the  remedies  for 
baldness,  and  just  about  as  beneficent.  The  doctor 
who  is  loud  in  his  assertion  that  he  can  overcome 
mal  de  mer,  at  the  very  moment  when  he  is  undone 
by  it,  is  on  a  par  with  the  barber  who  recommends  you 
a  lotion  calculated  to  bring  back  the  long-lost  cover- 
ing to  any  head — except  his  own,  which  shines  like  a 
billiard  ball. 

The  only  positively  and  absolutely  reliable  way  to 
avoid  mal  de  mer  is — to  keep  off  the  mer. 

A  timid  and  somewhat  cadaverous-looking  youth 
stood  by  my  side  on  the  deck  of  a  steamer  that  was 


96  The  Great  Wet  Way 

just  about  to  leave  New  York.  Everybody  was  saying 
good-bye;  groups  of  weeping  relatives  surrounded 
each  happy  passenger.  The  crowd  was  thick  and 
furious.  The  timid  youth  stood  apart,  and  I  watched 
him  in  his  isolation.  I  saw  him  take  from  his  pocket 
a  tiny  glass  tube,  open  it,  and  extract  a  pellet  which 
he  swallowed.  The  action  seemed  to  suggest  the 
idea  of  suicide,  and  I  felt  it  was  my  duty  to  go  up 
to  him  and  bid  him  pause,  ere  he  took  his  gay  young 
life.  It  did  not  look  particularly  worth  taking. 

He  laughed  when  I  sternly  asked  him  what  he  was 
doing.  "  I'm  trying  a  new  cure,"  he  said.  "  I'm  a 
wretched  sailor,  and  I'm  not  going  to  suffer  this  trip, 
if  I  can  help  it.  This  cure  has  been  given  me  by  a 
friend,  who  swears  by  it." 

He  showed  me  the  tube.  The  directions  were 
explicit,  but  very  busy:  "Five  minutes  before  sailing, 
take  a  pellet,"  I  read.  "At  the  moment  the  boat 

moves,  take  another  pel- 
let. Walk  up  and  down 
for  ten  minutes,  and  take 
a  third  pellet.  At  in- 
tervals of  seven  minutes, 
continue  taking  pellets 
throughout  the  first 
day.  Immediately  be- 
fore and  after  meals, 
take  two  pellets." 

"  You    will    never    be 


Mai  de  Mer  97 

able  to  do  all  that,"  I  suggested.  "Why,  it  is 
slavery.  You  will  wear  yourself  out  with  so  much 
work." 

"I  am  going  to  follow  this  prescription  closely,'* 
he  declared,  looking  at  his  watch  and  throwing  a 
pellet  into  his  mouth,  for  the  boat  was  moving. 
"  My  friend  was  not  ill  for  a  moment." 

"Was  the  weather  rough?" 

"I  forgot  to  ask  him  that,"  he  replied,  "but  I 
seem  to  remember  that  he  crossed  in  July." 

Every  time  I  saw  that  youth  during  the  first  day, 
he  was  taking  a  pellet — standing  on  deck  with  his 
watch  in  his  hand,  and  waiting  for  the  minutes  to 
pass.  He  seemed  impatient  for -the  pellet-moment 
to  arrive  and  then  when  it  had  arrived,  equally  im- 
patient for  the  next.  He  told  me  that  he  had  no 
time  to  arrange  things  in  his  stateroom,  and  had  not 
even  looked  to  see  where  it  was.  If  he  went  down- 
stairs, he  would  miss  a  pellet,  and  he  might  as  well 
give  the  thing  a  fair  trial.  When  evening  came  he 
looked  tired  and  worn  out.  As  I  passed  him,  he 
held  up  the  pellet-bottle,  and  smiled,  to  show  me 
how  nicely  he  was  getting  on.  He  had  certainly 
made  headway,  as  there  did  not  seem  to  be  more 
than  fifty  pellets  left.  By  midnight,  if  he  worked 
hard,  and  sat  up,  he  would  probably  have  exhausted 
the  supply. 

When  I  went  below  for  the  night,  I  said,  "Sleep 
well,"  to  the  poor  boy.  He  complained  that  he  had 


98  The  Great  Wet  Way 

a  dreadful  headache  and  a  strange  sensation  of  in- 
digestion  a  feeling  of  tightness,  he  called  it.  But 

he  intended  to  remain  on  deck  for  another  hour, 
just  to  continue  with  the  pellets. 

"One  is  due  now,"  he  said,  breaking  away  from 
me  eagerly.  "Excuse  me." 

Next  day,  I  missed  him,  and  feeling  interested  in 
the  solitary  lad,  I  went  to  his  room  to  see  how  he 
was.  He  was  quite  ill.  He  had  passed  a  sleepless 
night.  His  temperature  had  been  high,  and  he  had 
tossed  miserably  from  side  to  side.  The  ship's  doctor 
told  him  that  it  was  delayed  mat  de  mer,  which  is 
very  unpleasant — and  also  very  unnecessary. 

He  recovered.  He  was  as  seasick  as  a  human 
being  could  be,  after  which  his  equilibrium  was  re- 
stored. The  other  prostrated  passengers  were  ahead 


Mai  de  Mer  99 

of  him,  however.  He  was  the  last  on  the  ship  to 
recover. 

"I  shall  certainly  write  to  my  friend,"  he  said, 
"  and  ask  him  what  sort  of  weather  it  was  when  he 
took  those  brutal  pellets;  also— whether  he  took 
them!" 

There  is  another  excellent  remedy  for  mal  de  mer. 
You  take  it  every  day  for  a  week  before  sailing.  By 
the  time  you  go  on  board,  you  have  broken  out  into 
a  heavy  eruption.  You  look  as  though  you  were 
bringing  a  very  fine  case  of  measles  to  the  ship.  The 
passengers  regard  you  with  suspicious  eyes,  and  you 
discover  very  soon  that  you  are  avoided.  The  first 
person  to  whom  you  speak  runs  away.  You  hear 
mothers  warning  their  children  "  not  to  talk  to  that 
man  with  the  awful  face,"  and  the  entire  ship  seems 
to  be  whispering  about  you.  They  gaze  upon  you 
as  though  you  were  a  pariah,  and  the  more  explana- 
tions you  make,  the  more  sinister  are  the  looks  you 
encounter.  The  passengers  seem  to  be  deciding  upon 
a  plan  of  action.  They  stand  in  groups  on  the  deck, 
talking  in  low  tones,  and  watching  you  as  you  prowl 
in  wretched  solitude. 

You  look  normal  after  the  first  day,  but  feel  fear- 
fully abnormal.  The  beauty  about  this  "cure"  is  that 
it  brings  on  mal  de  mer  even  in  the  very  finest 
weather — which  is  really  wonderful.  Furthermore, 
the  eruption  returns  occasionally,  just  to  put  you  at 
your  ease,  and  I  have  known  it  endure  for  weeks 


ioo  The  Great  Wet  Way 

after  landing.  In  fact,  it  is  a  good  deal  for  the 
money.  Ladies  who  take  this  cure  wear  heavy  veils 
when  they  are  on  deck,  to  hide  their  disfigurement. 
But  it  is  not  often  necessary  for  them  to  wear  veils, 
for  they  are  generally  in  bed,  begging  the  stewardess 
to  throw  them  overboard  and  put  an  end  to  their 
miseries.  Stewards  and  stewardesses,  I  may  add,  al- 
though enjoined  by  the  company  to  do  all  they  can 
for  passengers,  are  never  allowed  to  throw  them 
overboard  when,  in  the  agonies  of  mal  de  mer,  they 
plead  for  this  luxury.  And  it  does  seem  a  luxury. 
One  yearns  for  it. 

"  The  reason  you  are  always  ill,  my  dear  madame," 
I  heard  a  doctor  say  to  a  lady,  who  was  imploring 
him  to  suggest  to  her  some  deterrent,  "  is  that  you  do 
not  understand  the  art  of  breathing  correctly.  Now 
if  you  go  to  your  stateroom,  disrobe,  and  watch  your- 
self, in  perfect  inactivity  in  front  of  a  mirror,  you 
should  note,  if  you  breathe  correctly,  that:  the  ante- 
rior and  lateral  walls  of  the  chest  move  rhythmically 
up  and  down,  while  air  passes  into  and  out  of  the 
nostrils  (and  mouth  also,  if  this  be  open)  in  corre- 
spondence with  the  movement " 

"  Had  I  better  keep  my  mouth  open?  "  she  asked 
anxiously. 

"Please  listen,"  he  continued,  enjoying  himself. 
"With  every  uprising  of  the  chest  walls,  the  mem- 
branous intercostal  portions  sink  slightly,  as  if  sucked 
in,  while,  at  the  same  time,  the  flexible  walls  of  the 


Mai  de  Mer  101 

abdomen  bulge  as  if  protruded  by  some  internal 
force.  Do  I  make  myself  clear?  " 

The  poor  thing — one  of  those  women  who  always 
think  in  words  of  one  syllable — looked  a  trifle  em- 
barrassed, but  she  said  she  understood  perfectly ,  and 
had  never  heard  breathing  so  simply  and  eloquently 
explained. 

"Later  on,"  he  resumed,  "take  a  little  hand-mir- 
ror, and  look  at  the  back  of  your  throat,  during 
respiration,  and  you  should  notice  that  the  glottis  is 
wide  open  during  inspiration  and  that  it  becomes  nar- 
rower by  the  approximation  of  the  vocal  chords  dur- 
ing expiration.  This  alteration  is  produced  by  the 
action  of  the  laryngeal  muscles." 

"  I  see,"  she  said,  "  thank  you  so  much." 

She  was  very  ill  indeed.  In  fact  she  was  one  of 
the  miserable  creatures  who  never  appeared  on  deck 
until  the  day  before  landing.  I  told  her  that  I  had 
listened  to  the  medical  exhortation  on  correct  breath- 
ing that  the  friendly  physician  had  uttered. 

"Perhaps  it  was  good,"  she  said  sadly,  "but  I 
never  got  a  chance  to  try  it.  I  was  taken  ill,  while  I 
was  getting  the  mirror  ready,  and  fussing  around, 
instead  of  taking  things  easily.  If  I  had  stayed  on 
deck,  I  might  have  had  a  better  chance,  but  there  I 
was  in  that  stuffy  stateroom,  moving  mirrors  around, 
trying  to  get  the  right  light,  and — illness  overcame 
me,  and  I  stayed  ill.  Never  again.  I  shall  go  on 
breathing,  as  I  have  been  brought  up  to  breathe.  I 


102  The  Great  Wet  Way 

shall  breathe  at  sea  just  the  same  as  on  land.  I  be- 
lieve that  doctor  liked  to  hear  himself  talk." 

When  you  have  been  so  ill  that  you  have  longed  to 
be  cast  into  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  and  have  threatened 
to  report  your  steward  for  disobedience,  because  he 
refused  to  fling  you  into  the  billows,  it  is  disgusting 
to  be  told  that  the  boat  never  rocked  once  all  the  way 
over,  and  that  its  steadiness  was  so  remarkable  that 
the  world's  engineers  were  interested.  You  would 
never  lie  on  such  a  subject,  and  yet — if  the  ship  did 
not  pitch  and  toss,  you  did;  and  if  the  ship  did  not 
pitch  and  toss  you,  then  you  must  have  dreamed  it. 

The  boat  was  so  steady  on  one  trip,  during  which 
several  passengers  had  been  utterly  overwhelmed, 
that,  according  to  statements  published  in  the  papers, 
a  glass  of  water,  full  to  the  brim,  had  been  placed  on 
the  deck,  and  left  there  for  experimental  purposes. 
None  of  the  water  was  spilled.  This  was  looked 
upon  as  an  extraordinary  feat.  Some  of  the  papers 
wrote  editorials  about  it,  and  declared  that  this  ship 
must  be  steadier  than  many  of  the  sky-scrapers  in 
New  York  that  vibrate  so  unpleasantly.  I  met  one 
of  the  feminine  passengers  the  next  day,  and  she  was 
very  indignant. 

"Did  you  read  what  they  said  in  the  papers  about 
placing  a  glass  of  water  on  deck?  "  she  asked  vehe- 
mently. "  It's  easy  to  make  foolish  statements  like 
that.  Did  you  see  that  glass  of  water?  No.  Did  I? 
No,  Did  any  of  my  friends  ?  No.  We  were  all  too 


Mai  de  Mer  103 

ill  to  see  it,  even  if  it  had  been  there.  They  might 
have  placed  a  glass  of  whiskey  on  deck,  and  nobody 
would  have  had  the  energy  to  drink  it.  It's  dreadful 
to  think  that  seamen  can  lie  so." 

It  is  also  exasperating  to  meet  a  fellow-sufferer — 
the  fellow  who  sat  beside  you  on  the  deck,  and  was 
just  a  trifle  worse  than  you  were — and  to  discover 
that  he  has  quite  forgotten  his  illness,  while  you  are 
so  candid  about  yours. 

"  Well,  old  chap,"  you  say,  affectionately,  "  I  guess 
that  dry  land  is  good  enough  for  us.  You  look  better 
than  you  did  last  Wednesday.  I  shall  never  forget 
the  look  of  sea-green  anguish  on  your  face.  We 
were  a  couple  of  unfortunates." 

He  looks  at  you  as  though  you  were  speaking  an 
unknown  language.  He  has  no  idea  what  you  mean. 
He  can  recall  no  such  incident  as  that  which  you 
mention,  and  he  is  so  plausible  about  it  that  you  begin 
to  think  that  you  must  have  been  dreaming.  And 
yet,  you  are  willing  to  swear  that  you  were  a  misera- 
ble wretch  last  Wednesday. 

"/  certainly  felt  very  groggy,"  you  say  stammer- 
ingly.  "  And — and — I  thought  you  did." 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  asserts  mendaciously.  "  I  may 
have  had  a  headache.  I  remember  now  that  I  had 
been  smoking  too  much — too  many  cigars.  Other- 
wise, I  have  never  felt  better  in  my  life.  It  was  a 
delightful  voyage,  and  I  am  sorry  it  is  over.  The  sea 
was  like  a  mill-pond — almost  too  calm." 

He  pursues  his  way  with  alacrity,  and  you  wonder 


104  The  Great  Wet  Way 

why  remembrance  is  so  bitter.  You  seem  to  see  a 
vision  of  him  on  that  hideous  Wednesday  when  he 
"slanged"  the  deck-steward  for  suggesting  food; 
when  he  sighed  every  time  the  boat  lurched;  when  he 
swore  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  him  to  cross 
again,  and  when  he  sank  into  comatose  slumber  until 
darkness  settled  on  the  face  of  the  waters.  With 
laughter,  the  world  is  with  you;  with  mat  de  mer, 
you  are  alone.  It  is  very  provoking.  People  on 
board  ship  are  most  ungrateful.  You  do  all  in  your 
power  to  ameliorate  their  symptoms,  and  they  tell 
you  that  they  never  had  any.  What's  the  use? 

It  is  said,  I  do  not  know  how  truly,  that  very  old 
people  never  suffer  from  mal  de  mer.  I  happened  to 
mention  this  to  several  people  who  had  enjoyed 
splendid  health  during  the  trip.  They  did  not  seem 
at  all  pleased,  and  seemed  to  think  it  personal.  The 
New  England  spinster,  I  was  informed,  took  it  much 
to  heart,  and  declared  that  she  had  suffered  a  great 
deal,  in  her  stateroom.  After  that,  I  never  alluded 
to  the  subject  again.  I  thought  that  passengers 
would  be  glad  to  know  that  it  was  possible  to  out- 
grow such  a  distinctly  disagreeable  ailment.  When 
I  first  heard  that  very  old  people  are  never  ill  at  sea, 
it  quite  cheered  me  up.  It  gave  me  something  to  live 
for,  to  anticipate  pleasantly.  In  fact,  it  contributed 
charm  to  old  age.  But  evidently  the  statement  was 
displeasing.  The  reason  I  made  it  was  that  a  little 
girl  told  me  that  her  grandmother  was  crazy  to  go  to 
Europe,  but  was  afraid  of  the  ocean. 


Mai  de  Mer 

"  Very  old  people  are  never  ill,"  I  said,  and  when 
she  was  surprised  and  incredulous,  I  mentioned  it  to 
the  others,  and  the  New  England  spinster  happened 
to  be  among  them.  This  seems  a  trifle,  but  as  my 
remark  made  me  so  many  enemies,  it  is  not  a  trifle 
to  me. 

Never  waste  any  sympathy  on  people  afflicted  with 
mal  de  mer.  This  is  a  difficult  rule  to  follow,  be- 
cause if  you  have  ever  suffered  yourself  you  long  to 
be  helpful.  When  you  go  up  on  deck  after  break- 
fast, feeling  pleased  with  the  world  in  general,  do  not 
approach  the  listless  fellow  lying  outstretched  on  his 
steamer-chair,  and  tell  him  that  a  soft-boiled  egg 
would  do  him  a  power  of  good. 

Do  not  try  to  make  conversation  with  the  once- 
animated  widow,  whom  you  see  swathed  in  rugs,  by 
telling  her  that  the  bacon  at  breakfast  was  excellent, 
and  suggesting  that  she  try  it. 

Never  talk  oatmeal-and-cream  to  the  recumbent 
chap  who  has  just  been  dragged  from  his  stateroom 
to  get  a  little  fresh  air  on  deck.  You  have  eaten  it, 
and  it  has  made  you  very  good-humoured,  but  he  will 
undoubtedly  resent  any  allusion  to  oatmeal-and 
cream. 

Never  wake  up  comatose  deck  mummies  to  offer 
them  a  cigar,  however  generous  you  may  be,  and 
however  keen  you  may  know  that  their  appetite  for 
tobacco  usually  is.  They  will  look  upon  you  as 
though  you  were  a  leper. 


io6 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


Pretty  girls  love  candies,  but  do  not  offer  your  box 
of  the  very  richest  to  the  maiden  who  sits  with  her 
eyes  closed  and  her  hands  listlessly  folded  in  front  of 
her.  She  is  oppressed,  but  it  is  not  by  any  need  of 
candy. 

Do  not  discuss  restaurants,  and  epicures,  and 
"  favourite  dishes  "  until  you  have  been  several  days 
at  sea,  and  even  then  look  well  before  you  leap. 

If  the  eggs  at  breakfast  have  been  a  trifle  world- 
weary,  or  the  fish  has  been  affable  in  spots  only,  do 
not  mention  this  even  to  your  best  friend.  Let  the 
secret  die  with  you.  On  board  ship,  friendship  is  a 
brittle  commodity. 

Do  not  brag  constantly  that  you  have  never  missed 
a  meal,  to  the  sad-faced  individual,  who  has  never 
missed — missing  them  all. 

And  if  you  must  have  a  Welsh-rarebit  before  re- 
tiring at  night,  whisper  your  desire  into  the  ear  of  the 
steward.  Do  not  advertise  it  among  the  prostrate 
forms  on  deck. 


m..-y 


CHILDREN   ON   BOARD 


RETTY  little  girls  on  the 
ocean  liner  are  nearly  al- 
ways eleven  years  old. 
At  first,  you  are  com- 
pletely bewildered  by 
what  seems  to  be  the 
oddest  sort  of  coinci- 
dence. You  have  been 
chatting  very  vivaciously 
with  one  of  those  cun- 
ning young  American  lassies  who  are  such  good  com- 
pany during  the  trip,  and  you  ask  her  how  old  she  is. 
She  looks  at  least  fifteen,  and  talks  at  least  thirty-one, 
but  she  says,  with  a  pellucidly  truthful  look  into  the 
middle  of  your  eye,  "  I'm  just  eleven." 

You  have  been  laughing  at  the  varied  European 
experiences  of  another  much-travelled  little  girl,  who 
has  been  everywhere,  and  "  done  "  everything,  who 
"  bosses  "  her  mommer  and  popper,  and  treats  you 
with  a  sort  of  condescending  superiority.  She  seems 
much  older  than  many  of  the  old  people  on  deck,  but 
she  tells  you,  in  emphatic  tones,  that  she  is  eleven 
years  old.  You  suggest  that  she  is  very  big  for  her 
age,  and  the  remark  appears  to  annoy  her.  You  no- 

107 


io8  The  Great  Wet  Way 

tice,  subsequently,  that  she  seems  to  be  telling  her 
father  and  mother,  who  look  at  you  somewhat  indig- 
nantly from  their  steamer-chairs. 

You  meet  a  third,  very  tall  and  very  lanky.  She 
wears  short  dresses  which  look  inappropriate,  and 
her  hair  floats  in  the  breeze  rather  conspicuously. 
She  suggests  a  problem.  Is  she  really  a  little  girl,  or 
a  big  girl  disguised?  You  ask  her,  and  she  replies 
shortly,  "  I  was  eleven  last  birthday." 

You  begin  to  believe  that  you  are  associating  with 
the  future  mothers  of  a  race  of  giants.  Never  in  all 
your  life  have  you  seen  such  tremendous  eleven-year- 
olders.  I  remember  listening  to  a  conversation  be- 
tween one  of  these  overgrown  girls  and  a  tiny  mite 
of  nine  years  old.  It  was  very  instructive. 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "  piped  the  tiny  mite  of  nine. 

"  Eleven,"  promptly  responded  the  big  girl. 

"  You're  only  two  years  older  than  I  am?  "  queried 
the  tot  incredulously.  "  Why,  I  heard  mommer  say 
that  you  must  be  at  least  sixteen " 

"  You're  a  very  rude  little  girl,"  said  the  big  girl 
irritably,  "  and  you  talk  too  much." 

"  What  time  do  you  go  to  bed?  "  persisted  the  tot, 
the  retiring  hour  being  the  great  bond  of  sympathy 
between  children  of  all  ages. 

"Any  time,"  replied  the  big  girl.  "Generally  ten 
o'clock." 

"  I  go  to  bed  at  seven,"  murmured  the  tot,  "  and 
mommer  says  when  I'm  eleven,  I  shall  go  to  bed  at 


Children  on  Board 


109 


eight.     I  suppose  I  shan't  be  as  big  as  you  are.    It 
must  be  ripping  to  be  tall  and  old-looking  like  you." 

You  long  for  a  key  to  this  apparent  mystery,  for 
the  problem  grows  knottier.  You  pick  up  a  book,  in 
which  you  read  the  inscription :  "  To  dear  Cora,  from 
mother,  on  her  fourteenth  birthday."  Later  on,  dear 
Cora  promptly  tells  you  that  she  is  eleven  years  old, 
and  you  suppose  that  mother  must  have  given  her  a 
book  that  she  had  intended  to  present  three  years 
later.  Dear  Cora  certainly  looks  fourteen,  and  abso- 
lutely refuses  to  "play"  with  the  children  who  look 
eleven.  She  regards  them  as  babies,  after  the  manner 
of  big  little  girls. 

All  this  is  very  puzzling,  of  course,  unless  you  hap- 
pen to  have  children  of  your  own.  Then  you  know; 
there  is  no  mystery  at 
all;  it  is  as  plain  as  a 
pikestaff.  There  is 
an  explanatory  legend 
on  every  steamship 
company's  prospec- 
tus :  "  Children  be- 
tween one  and  eleven 
pay  half  fare."  Un- 
der such  circum- 
stances, you  can  quite 
understand  how  an- 
noying it  is  for  pa- 
rents to  discover  that 


no 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


their  children  have  been  born  two  or 
three  years  too  late.  It  is  unpardon- 
able, and  it  is  unbearable.  But  as 
no  certificates  of  birth  are  ever  asked 
for,  there  is  a  remedy.  The  truth  is 
a  very  good  thing  in  its  right  place, 
but  half  a  fare  saved — well,  that  is 
not  such  a  very  bad  thing  in  its  right 
place,  which  is  on  the  ocean  steamer. 
Parents  have  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  in  this  matter,  but  then,  they 
have  trouble  in  so  many  others,  that 
they  are  used  to  it.  Nice  little  girls  of 
twelve,  and  thirteen,  and  fourteen 
hate  to  under-age  themselves.  Their  ambition  is  to 
be  as  grown-up  as  possible.  Of  course.  It  is  not 
until  a  girl  has  ceased  to  be  a  girl  that  she  is  inter- 
ested in  subtraction.  Therefore,  many  children  can- 
not and  will  not  understand  why  they  must  be  so 
young  on  the  ocean.  They  dislike  it  immensely,  espe- 
cially when  they  have  to  dig  out  some  forgotten 
young  clothes  from  the  limbo  of  the  past. 

The  annoying  thing  that  parents  have  to  face  is 
the  fact  that  perfect  strangers  feel  completely  justi- 
fied in  asking  the  dear  children  how  old  they  are. 
This  should  never  be  permitted.  A  young  girl  on 
board  ship  is  as  old  as  she  doesn't  look,  and  doesn't 
feel.  This  prying  into  statistics,  all  very  well  on  land, 
is  most  impertinent  at  sea.  Men  and  women  who  are 


Children  on  Board 


in 


fathers  and  mothers  never  pry. 
They  are  so  busy  reducing  their 
own  children  to  the  half  fare 
that  they  are  sympathetic  and  in- 
tuitively sagacious.  It  is  the  young 
unmarried  people  who  are  so  in- 
quisitive and  so  embarrassing. 
Experience  teaches.  Nowadays, 
I  never  ask  a  child  her  age  on  the 
steamer,  for  I  know  that  she  is 
eleven.  If  she  is  not,  her  parents 
are  reckless  folks  who  are  anxious 
to  throw  their  money  away. 

Yet  this  complication  is  often 
lovely.  Frequently  one  crosses  year  after  year  with 
the  same  people.  Little  Miss  Cute  who  was  eleven 
last  year,  has  not  aged  at  all.  You  are  a  year  older, 
and  you  look  it.  But  she  is  still  eleven,  although  she 
doesn't  look  it.  She  will  be  eleven  next  year,  too. 
She  will  be  eleven  until  her  younger  brother,  who  is 
thirteen,  and  too  big  to  be  half-price,  reveals  the  fatal 
truth  in  self-defence.  Little  Miss  Cute  sometimes 
stays  in  Europe  for  a  whole  year,  and  returns — still 
eleven.  Some  people  think  that  foreign  travel  keeps 
one  young.  It  certainly  seems  to  do  so  in  this  case. 

Occasionally  these  age-restrained  youngsters  rebel; 
frequently  they  forget.  The  eleven-year-older  who 
is  fourteen  is  anxious  to  take  part  in  the  "  sports  " 
that  are  sometimes  organised  on  the  ship.  He  enters 


ii2  The  Great  Wet  Way 

the  race  for  boys  over  twelve.  The  ocean-fact  that  he 
is  just  eleven  has  slipped  from  his  memory,  poor 
little  chap!  Mommer  hauls  him  back  to  his  en- 
forced ultra  juvenility. 

'  You  naughty  boy!  "  I  heard  her  say  to  him  on 
one  of  these  festive  occasions.  "  You  know  you  are 
eleven.  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  I  wouldn't  take  you 
to  Europe  unless  you  were  eleven?  Go  at  once  and 
tell  the  officer  that  you  won't  be  twelve  for  a  year." 
'(She  might  have  made  it  three  years,  for  he  was  a 
small  lad.) 

The  poor  child  wept.  "  I  don't  want  to  go  in  for 
a  baby's  race,"  he  protested.  "  It  isn't  fair  to  me, 
and  it  isn't  fair  to  the  others.  Who  cares  how  old  I 
am  anyway?  " 

"  /  care,  Reginald,"  said  mother,  "  and  your  father 
cares.  Now  be  a  good  boy.  We  shall  land  the  day 
after  to-morrow,  and  you  can  be  sixteen  if  you  like." 

The  child  who  is  eleven  years  old  just  for  the  trip 
conflicts  with  the  child  who  has  a  certificated  right  to 
that  age.  How  the  poor  kid  does  hate  to  be  eleven ! 
He  would  far  sooner  have  remained  in  New  York  to 
be  joyously  thirteen,  and  to  "play"  with  his  elders. 
His  pleasure  is  marred.  He  becomes  surly.  Life  to 
him  is  retrogression,  not  progression.  He  goes  to  the 
children's  table — on  the  English  liner — with  the 
nurses  and  maids,  who  decline  to  believe  that  he  is 
only  eleven,  and  cross-examine  him,  and  try  to  trip 
him — which  is  easy  enough,  for  his  heart  is  not  in  his 


Children  on  Board  113 

fib.  He  is  tucked  up  in  his  bunk  at  an  ungodly  hour, 
for  the  sake  of  appearances,  and  he  feels  the  gross 
indignity  of  the  thing.  The  child  who  is  really  eleven 
insists  upon  making  a  pal  of  him,  and  sees  no  reason 
for  his  haughtiness. 

The  half-price  child  rarely  enjoys  his  trip  across, 
and  when  he  has  landed  there  is  the  dread  presenti- 
ment always  with  him  that,  when  he  returns,  he  will 
be  obliged  to  be  eleven  again.  Yet  parents  feel  no 
qualms  when  they  buy  their  tickets.  To  say  diffi- 


ii4  The  Great  Wet  Way 

dently  that  a  child  is  eleven,  is  easy,  but  to  keep  him 
eleven  for  a  week,  when  he  is  longing  for  his  ma- 
jority, is  not  so  simple. 

Sometimes,  the  parents  of  the  various  children  con- 
flict. Mommer  is  very  proud  of  her  boy,  who  is  so 
well-grown,  splendidly  developed,  and  just  eleven! 
She  points  to  him  with  pride;  she  brags  about  him; 
she  tells  his  age  to  everybody,  though  she  may  be  less 
candid  next  year. 

"  Yes,  he  is  a  fine  boy,"  says  somebody.  "  But 
look  at  that  great  big  chap  over  there.  He's  a  won- 
der. Why,  he  is  positively  growing  a  moustache.  He 
is  only  eleven." 

"  If  that  boy's  eleven,  then  I'm  sixteen,"  declares 
the  baffled  mother,  indignantly.  "  The  way  in  which 
people  lie  about  their  children's  age  is  disgusting. 
There  is  no  excuse  for  it,  and  I  cannot  for  the  life  of 

me  understand  how 
they  do  it." 

She  will  under- 
stand next  year,  and 
perhaps  she,  too, 
will — er — lie. 

The  infant  is  free, 
I  think,  on  some  of 
the  lines.  On  others, 
it  costs  five  dollars — 
provided  there  is 
only  one  in  a  family. 


Children  on  Board  115 

The  infant  should  be  charged  at  double  the  miximum 
rate,  and  there  should  be  none  in  any  family  that  un- 
dertakes the  transatlantic  trip.  If  the  infant  enjoys 
the  ocean  crossing  it  does  so  in  its  own  peculiar  way. 
It  is  usually  very  merry  at  midnight,  when  the  adult 
passengers  have  ceased  to  frivol,  and  it  generally 
prattles  delightfully  at  the  matutinal  hour  of  five 
o'clock.  Its  parents,  who  are  cooped  up  with  it  in  a 
stateroom,  revel  in  the  vivacious  moods  of  their  in- 
fant, even  if,  to  the  other  passengers,  those  moods 
seem  strangely  out  of  place.  They  tell  everybody 
that  it  is  "such  a  good  child,"  and  that  it  never  cries. 
When,  however,  you  are  particularly  eager  to  forget 
the  bounding  billows,  in  happy  oblivion,  good  infants 
appear  to  you  to  be  just  as  prohibitive  as  bad  ones. 
Baby  is  awfully  cute  in  the  next  stateroom,  and  it  is 
not  crying;  yet  you  would  feel  relieved  if  it  were  not 
laughing.  Dear  little  thing!  Of  course  you  love 
babies,  and  their  sunny  ways,  but  when  the  ship  is 
very  silent,  and  you  are  quite  drowsy,  and  your  bunk 
is  most  comfortable,  and  you  are  longing  to  indulge 
in  the  pleasant  but  hackneyed  pastime  of  being 
"  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep,"  the  sunny  ways 
of  the  pet,  who  is  separated  from  you  by  a  few 
boards,  lack  all  warmth. 

Whenever  you  are  just  "  dropping  off,"  and  are 
congratulating  yourself  that  baby  has  got  ahead  of 
you,  the  clear  manly  voice  of  the  masculine  parent 
sings  out,  "  Upsi  I  Upsi  I  Popper's  boy  I  "  This  hap- 


n6  The  Great  Wet  Way 

pened  to  me  last  year.  I  tried  to  Christian-Science 
myself  into  sublime  disregard  of  such  petty  stings — 
errors  of  mortal  mind — but  the  scheme  utterly  failed 
to  work.  The  ocean  was  quite  noisy;  the  sound  of 
the  machinery  was  loud  in  my  ears,  but  above  it  all 
I  heard :  "  Upsi !  Upsi !  Popper's  boy !  " 

I  could  almost  see  that  proud  young  father,  toss- 
ing up  "  popper's  boy,"  and  drinking  in  the  delight- 
ful cooing  laughter  of  the  infant.  What  annoyed  me 
more  than  anything  was  that  mommer  was  not  in  the 
least  disturbed  by  "  Upsi !  Upsi !  Popper's  boy !  " 
and  this  seemed  to  me  like  rank  injustice.  /  should 
have  slept,  while  she  enjoyed  the  gambols  of 
her  child.  If  I  had  particularly  hankered  for  baby 
talk  in  the  privacy  of  the  stateroom,  I  could 
have  found  some  infant  to  accompany  me  across  the 

ocean,  and  could  have 
afforded  the  five  dol- 
lars, which  is,  of 
course,  very  little. 

M  y  room  -  mates 
also  slept  soundly, 
and  stoutly  declined 
to  interrupt  their 
slumbers  by  listening 
to  "Upsi!  Upsi! 
Popper's  b  o  y."  I 
yearned  to  wake  them 
up,  and  make  fellow- 


Children  on  Board  117 

sufferers  of  them.  It  is  always  so  dreadful  to  be 
alone.  Upon  my  room-mates  it  must  have  acted  as 
a  lullaby,  and  I  envied  them.  When  I  asked  one  of 
them  in  the  morning  if  he  had  really  slept  through 
the  joy-song  in  the  next  cabin,  he  testily  replied  that 
it  did  not  bother  him  in  the  least,  for  he  was  very 
fond  of  children.  The  insinuation  in  his  remark 
seemed  to  be  that  I  was  not!  It  was  not  worth 
arguing  about.  One  can  be  very  fond  of  children, 
and  yet  prefer  them  at  the  other  end  of  the  ship. 

On  one  liner  every  man  on  board  seemed  to 
trundle  a  baby-carriage  about  the  deck.  There  are 
folding  baby-carriages  that  can  be  put  into  steamer- 
trunks — a  charming  arrangement.  There  were  so 
many  of  these  on  board,  that  you  felt  positively  im- 
moral without  one.  It  seemed  like  a  wicked  waste 
of  time  to  walk  up  and  down  the  deck  without  a 
baby-carriage.  In  fact,  on  this  ship,  I  thought  that 
the  company  provided  them,  and  could  scarcely  re- 
frain from  applying  to  the  purser  for  a  nice,  easy- 
going baby-carriage,  with  a  fractious  infant  in  it. 
Parents  looked  quite  scornfully  at  non-parents.  They 
taunted  them,  and  appeared  to  wonder  how  they 
could  possibly  imagine  that  they  were  enjoying 
an  ocean  trip  without  a  baby.  They  looked  upon 
you  as  useless  lumber,  as  you  lay  idle  in  your 
steamer-chair,  watching  them  trundling  past.  It  was 
just  like  a  kindergarten.  The  infants  slept  in  the 
keen  sea  air,  and  did  themselves  a  great  deal  of  good. 


u8 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


The  parents  seemed 
anxious  for  them  to  sleep 
as  much  as  they  could  in 
the  day-time,  so  that 
they  could  prattle  pret- 
tily during  the  night. 
(Babies  on  a  liner  always 
sleep  all  day,  and  al- 
ways do  not  sleep  all 
night.  If  you  can  regulate  your  own  slumbers  to  fit 
in  with  this  pious  scheme,  you  will  be  quite  undis- 
turbed. It  is  very  healthy  for  a  baby  to  sleep  in  the 
open  air,  instead  of  in  a  stuffy  state-room ;  it  would 
also  be  healthy  for  you,  but  you  cannot  break  your- 
self of  the  foolish  habit  of  sleeping,  or  of  trying 
to  sleep,  at  night. 

Why  do  babies  cross  the  ocean?  Do  not  tell  me 
that  it  is  to  get  to  the  other  side,  because  either 
side  would  suit  them  equally  well.  They  are  dragged 
across,  poor  little  dears,  because  mommer  and  pop- 
per cannot  leave  them  at  home.  They  are  taken  to 
Italy  and  Switzerland,  and  initiated  into  all  the 
agonies  of  foreign  travel,  simply  because  mommer 
and  popper  selfishly  like  foreign  travel.  Unlike 
Mr.  Grossmith,  in  his  song,  parents  refuse  to  "  leave 
the  baby  on  the  shore." 

"I  took  a  nurse  with  me  one  year,"  a  fond 
mother  confided  in  me,  "  but  I  shall  never  do  it  again. 
Nurse  suffered  from  mal  de  mer  from  the  very  in- 


Children  on  Board  119 

stant  we  sailed  until  we  landed.  I  had  to  take  care 
of  her.  I  waited  on  her  hand  and  foot,  and  took 
charge  of  baby  as  well.  I  have  discovered  that 
nurses  are  very  sensitive.  No  matter  how  calm  the 
weather  may  be,  they  are  always  ill.  They  seem  to 
think  that  it  is  their  privilege  to  be  ill;  that  to  be 
well  would  be  ridiculous,  and  even  Quixotic  on  their 
part.  It  was  the  busiest  voyage  I  have  ever  had.  I 
should  like  to  have  been  ill  myself,  for  a  day  or  two, 
but  I  simply  hadn't  time.  No  more  nurses  for  me." 
Baby  on  the  ocean  is  always  well.  This  sounds 
refreshing,  but  sometimes  baby's  health  is  distinctly 
in  the  way,  and  extremely  awkward.  I  have  seen  the 
mother  laid  low,  the  aunt  prostrated,  the  little  sister 
comatose  in  her  bunk,  yet  baby  insisted  upon  being 
petted,  and  played  with,  and  looked  after.  Baby 
hated  to  stay  in  the  stateroom  with  the  invalids. 
Baby  was  gay  and  obstreperous,  and  inclined  to  pat- 
ronise the  turbulent  ocean.  It  is  a  morbid  mother 
who  repines  at  the  good  health  of  her  offspring,  but 
in  this  particular  family  the  poor  sea-racked  parent 
declared  that  if  baby  had  just  felt  a  touch  of  the  dis- 
comfort that  raged  on  the  ship,  it  would  have  made 
the  child  more  sympathetic.  As  it  was,  it  refused  to 
be  discomfited.  It  was  hungry.  The  sight  of  food 
made  the  mother  wish  that  she  was  dead,  but  she  had 
to  dally  with  milk,  and  arrange  dainty  repasts  for  the 
voracious  infant.  You  can  take  your  dog  across  for 
ten  dollars,  and  the  ship's  butcher  will  take  care  of 


120  The  Great  Wet  Way 

him  for  you,  in  consideration  of  a  tip.  But  you 
cannot  leave  the  baby  with  the  ship's  butcher.  You 
can  take  a  bird  over  for  four  dollars  provided  that 
you  cage  it.  But  you  cannot  cage  the  baby,  and  that 
is  why  the  dear  little  cherub  seems  at  times  to  intrude. 

You  must  remember  that  no  baby  is  crazy  to  go  to 
Europe.  The  average  infant  is  quite  satisfied  to  stay 
anywhere,  and  does  not  clamour  for  foreign  travel.  It 
goes  because  it  is  compelled  to  go,  and  doesn't  know 
what  is  to  happen  to  it.  Therefore  every  ocean-going 
mother  owes  something  to  the  poor  baby,  who  has 
been  dragged  from  its  nursery  to  the  steamship,  and 
will  be  dragged  from  the  steamship  to  some  un- 
comfortable hotel.  If  one  were  only  able  to  crate  a 
baby,  as  one  crates  a  bicycle,  the  matter  would  be 
very  simple.  Bicycles  must  be  "  properly  crated," 
and  are  taken  at  the  "owners'  risk."  Why  has  a 
bicycle  privileges  that  are  denied  the  baby? 

On  the  old-fashioned  lines,  particularly  the  con- 
servative English  ones,  children  take  their  meals  at 
a  separate  table.  On  the  German  steamers  that  cater 
to  free  Americans,  and  know  what  the  Americans 
like,  such  a  restriction  is  not  practised.  Little  Sadie 
sits  at  dinner  with  mommer  and  popper,  studies  the 
elongated  menu,  and  goes  through  it  all  religiously. 
English  passengers  are  aghast  at  this.  They  think  it 
dreadful.  The  English  child  is  kept  under  a  bushel 
until  maturity  sets  in.  It  is  brought  up  in  the  delight- 
ful notion  that  the  good  things  enjoyed  by  its  parents 
belong  to  later  life  only.  It  is  satisfied  with  inferior 


Children  on  Board 


121 


food  conservatively  believed  to  be  more  nourishing. 
It  grows  up  greedy,  and  always  hungry,  clamouring 
for  the  delicacies  that  were  denied  it  in  its  early  days. 
The  American  child,  permitted  to  partake  of  every- 
thing, and  not  taught  to  regard  any  particular  viand 


as  forbidden  fruit,  acquires  no  abnormal  appetite, 
and  is  very  sensible.  You  see  the  two  brands  of  child 
on  the  ship,  and  the  difference  between  them  is  im- 
pressive. 

The  ocean  child  is  very  precocious.  The  child  of 
the  exclusive  passenger  is  most  amusing.  Although 
it  is  usually  requested  not  to  talk  to  promiscuous 


122  The  Great  Wet  Way 

people — it  talks.  It  tells  you  all  about  popper's  auto- 
mobiles, and  how  much  they  cost;  it  knows  the  price 
of  mommer's  dresses,  and  it  can  discuss  foreign 
hotels  very  plausibly. 

The  child  with  a  nurse  looks  contemptuously  at 
the  child  without  one.  It  has  "  caste  "  written  all 
over  it.  It  is  a  haughty  little  kid,  taking  its  cue  from 
mommer  and  popper,  who  educated  it  in  all  the  sub- 
tleties of  democratic  aristocracy.  And  these  sub- 
tleties are  so  numerous,  that  you  are  particularly 
delighted  at  the  interesting  study.  Sometimes  the 
exclusive  child  is  paraded  up  and  down  the  deck  by 
a  French  maid,  and  talks  villainous  French  to  this 
long-suffering  type.  So  does  mommer.  You  can  hear 
mommer's  Ollendorfian  quips  above  the  swish  of  the 
ocean,  but  the  replies  of  the  French  maid  are  in- 
audible. The  little  girl,  you  are  told,  speaks  better 
French  than  English.  You  can  quite  believe  it.  No 
self-respecting  democratic  aristocracy  considers  its 
native  tongue  very  important.  French  is  the  lan- 
guage for  the  nice  child.  Yet  in  France,  the  most 
inferior  people  speak  French — people  whom  you 
would  refuse  to  ask  to  your  house  speak  absolutely 
perfect  French! 

The  Captain  loves  children.  Every  Captain  loves 
children,  and  says  so.  They  pester  the  life  out  of 
him,  and  are  fearfully  familiar,  but  he  smiles  at  their 
behaviour — when  mommer  is  looking.  On  a  fine 
morning,  the  Captain  walks  round  the  deck,  chucks 


Children  on  Board 


123 


the  children  under  the  chin,  and  tells  them  stories  of 
his  own  little  boys  and  girls.  The  last  Captain  I 
crossed  with  had  thirteen,  and  was  able  to  remember 
all  their  names.  The  mothers  on  board  thought  it 
was  perfectly  sweet  of  him  having  so  many  children. 
He  was  a  mother's  man,  and  was  very  popular. 
Though  he  had  so  many  little  girls  of  his  own,  he 
had  no  objection  at  all  to  bigger  girls — those  of 
eighteen  or  nineteen  years  old.  He  was  awfully 
nice  to  them,  probably  remembering  that  they  had 
once  been  tots.  That  is  a  great  test.  Every  man 
who  adores  the  tiny  prattling  girl,  should  be 
kind  to  the  maiden  of  blushing  sixteen,  just  be- 
cause she  was  once  a  tot  1  It  is  not  nice  to  be  harsh 
to  a  pretty  girl  just 
because  she  is  no 
longer  a  tot.  She 
cannot  help  it. 

The  doctor  on 
board  usually  pre- 
fers little  tots  of 
twenty  or  so,  and 
makes  himself  very 
attractive  to  them. 
He  loves  the  tiny 
children,  however, 
especially  those  with 
grown-up  sisters, 
and  he  makes  great 


10  M 


124  The  Great  Wet  Way 

pets  of  them,  as  a  sort  of  prelude  to  their  grown- 
up sisters. 

Children  on  board  are  very  useful  in  that  way. 
iYou  see  a  very  charming  young  woman,  who  has 
no  husband  to  speak  of,  and  who  drags  around  a 
husky  boy  all  the  time.  On  land,  you  would  think 
the  husky  boy  an  odious  cub,  with  his  bad  manners, 
his  "  tough  "  accent,  and  his  dirty  hands.  At  sea, 
you  take  to  him  instinctively.  You  insist  upon 
walking  with  him  on  deck,  and  you  play  games  with 
him,  and  let  him  win.  Later  on,  his  pretty  mother 
thanks  you  and,  in  order  to  be  thanked  comfort- 
ably, you  sit  in  the  unoccupied  steamer-chair  by  her 
side.  And  there  you  are!  A  pleasant  friendship 
is  established,  which  might  have  been  very  diffi- 
cult without  the  husky  boy. 

Many  young  men,  who  are  dying  to  talk  to  a 
pretty  girl,  pave  the  way  with  a  few  trivial  candies 
offered  to  her  little  sister.  They  are  attracted 
irresistibly  to  the  tot  who  subsequently  leads  them 
in  the  direction  of  the  pretty  girl.  You  often  hear 
this  sort  of  thing: 

"  Sylvia,  come  and  sit  down.  You  are  worrying 
that  gentleman.  You  mustn't  do  it." 

"  She  isn't  worrying  me  at  all,"  says  that  gen- 
tleman, doffing  his  hat  as  he  realises  that  every- 
thing comes  to  him  who  waits.  "  I  am  awfully 
fond  of  children." 

The    pretty   girl    smiles    adorably.      "  It    is    ex- 


Children  on  Board  125 

tremely  good  of  you,"  she  says.  "  I've  watched 
you  playing  with  Sylvia,  and  she  seems  to  have 
been  leading  you  a  life.  You  look  tired.  Sylvia, 
run  away  and  play." 

"  I  guess  I  was  a  bit  tired,"  he  says,  dropping 
into  a  seat  by  the  pretty  girl.  "  What  a  charming 
child  she  is — so  friendly  and  so  amusing." 

Sylvia  does  not  come  back,  and  he  does  not  go 
after  her,  and  the  pretty  girl  wonders  where  little 
Sylvia  is,  but  does  not  worry.  After  that  he  plays 
no  more  with  little  Sylvia.  He  is  always  tired,  in 
a  chair  by  the  pretty  girl.  And  there  you  are  again  I 

Young  men  should  never  travel  without  candies. 
A  box  or  two  of  the  very  best  is  worth  its  weight 
in  gold.  It  is  an  open  sesame  to  many  delightful 
associations.  A  young  man  can  never  do  wrong 
by  offering  a  child  some  candies,  and  children  never 
travel  alone.  They  nearly  all  have  sisters — affec- 
tionate girls  who  love  to  see  the  children  nicely 
treated.  Candies  can  often  be  bought  on  the  ship, 
but  it  is  better  to  purchase  them  on  land,  as  part  of 
one's  travelling  trousseau. 

Sometimes,  of  course,  love's  labour  seems  to  have 
been  lost.  On  one  trip  there  was  a  very  pretty 
young  matron,  who  was  travelling  with  her  little 
boy — and  a  very  cute  little  boy  he  was.  It  was 
on  a  German  boat,  and  the  officers  did  not  speak 
very  good  English.  The  purser  liked  the  pretty 
matron  very  much,  and  made  friends  immediately 


ia6  The  Great  Wet  Way 

with  the  boy.  He  was  soon  introduced  to  the 
young  matron,  and  seemed  very  happy. 

"  I  only  wish  I  spoke  English  properly,"  I 
heard  him  say  to  her. 

"I'll  teach  you,  if  you  like,"  she  declared 
promptly. 

The  joy  on  that  man's  face  was  appalling! 
Here  was  his  chance  to  learn  English,  and  never 
have  I  seen  a  fellow  manifest  such  a  craving  for 
knowledge.  That  night  I  saw  the  pretty  matron 
and  the  purser  on  deck.  She  was  teaching  him 
English,  but  he  looked  crestfallen,  miserable,  and 
even  despondent.  He  was  a  very  bad  pupil,  and 
his  verbs  were  simply  disgusting.  She  was  very 
patiently,  very  encouragingly,  doing  her  best  to 
give  him  at  least  a  superficial  knowledge  of  our 
beautiful  language — the  language  of  Shakespeare! 
— and  on  her  lap  sat  the  cute  little  boy!  The  cute 
little  boy  was  very  wide-awake,  and  lively — also 
extremely  chatty.  Now  why  did  the  purser  look 
so  wretched?  He  was  very  fond  of  the  cute  little 
boy.  Yet  his  English  did  not  improve  at  all.  He 
was  still  far  from  fluent  when  we  landed.  Perhaps 
matrons  with  cute  little  boys,  worn  on  their  laps, 
are  not  the  best  teachers  in  the  world. 

The  annoying  thing  about  children  on  board  is 
that  they  never  seem  to  go  to  bed.  Their  reign  is 
endless.  Much  as  you  love  them,  and  revel  in  their 
ingenuous  prattle,  you  feel  that  they  should  go  to 


Children  on  Board 


127 


bed  aftar  dark.  It  is  good  for  their  immature 
intellect.  But  it  is  after  dark  that  they  are  at  their 
liveliest.  You  are  enjoying  a  heart-to-heart  talk 
with  a  very  pleasing  girl  in  a  sombre  corner  of  the 
deck  that  you  have  had  in  your  mind's  eye  all  day. 
You  are  talking  about  the  moonlit  sea,  and  the 
poetry  of  the  occasion  surges  in  your  breast.  It 
is  precisely  this  sombre  corner  of  the  deck  that  the 
children  select  for  their  very  unnecessary  game  of 
hide-and-seek.  Perhaps  you  have  just  remarked 
that  "  the  moon  is  the  sweet  regent  of  the  sky," 
which  always  sounds  well,  and  is  a  useful  quotation 
to  have  around  the  house,  when  there  is  a  hideous 
shout  of  "  Cuckoo  I  I'm  ready!  "  behind  your  chair, 
and  out  bounces  an  irrepressible.  It  is  an  awful 
shock,  and  your  nerves  are  horribly  jangled. 

"  It  is  disgusting,  keeping  children  up  so  late," 
you  declare  peevishly,  losing  all  interest  in  "the 
sweet  regent  of  the 
sky."  But  you  dis- 
cover that  it  is  her 
brother  who  has  call- 
ed "Cuckoo!"  and 
you  are  obliged  to 
smile  indulgently, 
and  assert  that  after 
all,  the  dear  little 
things  must  amuse 
themselves.  You  re- 


128  The  Great  Wet  Way 

peat  that  you  love  children,  but  at  that  moment 
you  loathe  them. 

Children  make  and  mar  flirtations.  You  think 
that  you  have  done  your  duty  when  you  have  de- 
clared all  day  that  you  love  children.  At  night 
you  feel  the  need  of  a  rest.  At  night  you  are 
distinctly  of  the  opinion  that  you  are  not  called  upon 
to  love  children  so  fervently.  But  the  sea-child  is 
very  obstreperous.  Its  high  spirits  are  absolutely 
alarming.  You  want  the  quiet,  dark  ship  for 
poetic  sentiment;  the  sea-child  wants  it  for  noisy 
games.  And  the  sea-child  gets  it.  It  breaks  in  upon 
your  carefully  arranged  tete-a-tete,  and  there  is  no 
redress.  While  candies  work  well  all  day,  they 
decline  to  carry  their  labours  into  the  night. 
Children  hate  to  go  to  bed;  no  amount  of  candy 
will  act  as  an  inducement.  Little  Johnnie  laughs 
in  your  face  when  you  promise  him  a  box  of  candy 
to-morrow,  if  he  will  go  to  bed  like  a  good  boy. 
He  may  even  tell  you  to  "go  chase  yourself,"  for 
he  is  a  bright  little  chap. 

Exciting  bridge  games  in  the  smokeroom  are 
broken  up  by  dear  little  children.  They  dash  in, 
and  drag  their  father  away,  under  the  pretence  that 
mother  wants  him,  just  as  you  have  doubled  a  "  no 
trumper,"  and  are  feverish  and  petulant  to  play  it. 
This  is  an  unkind  cut.  It  often  happens.  Some- 
times it  looks  as  though  children  were  trained  to 


Children  on  Board  129 

romp  in  and  break  up  a  nice  game  at  a  critical 
moment.  Then  they  lean  over  you,  while  you  are 
playing,  and  describe  the  cards  you  hold  to  your 
opponent.  Your  opponent  says  that  children  are 
awfully  cute.  You  say  nothing,  afraid  that  the  re- 
mark uppermost  on  your  lips  would  be  unfit  for 
publication.  Later  on — when  you  have  lost  the 
rubber — you  cannot  help  asserting  that  a  smoke- 
room  is  no  place  for  a  child,  which  is  a  very  tem- 
perate remark,  under  the  circumstances. 

This  sort  of  remark  never  makes  a  hit  with  the 
parent,  probably  because  its  truth  is  so  apparent. 
The  parent  glares  at  you,  and  then  the  child  begins 
to  cry,  and  you  feel  a  wretch,  and  give  the  naughty 
little  thing  a  penny,  and  the  naughty  little  thing 
ceases  crying  immediately.  After  that  you  ex- 
perience no  pressing  need  for  any  more  bridge,  and 
sit  in  a  corner  playing  solitaire. 

The  ship's  children  are  indeed  irrepressible.  Only 
an  idiot  would  try  to  repress  them,  and  he  would  try 
only  once.  Parents  want  the  little  things  to  have  a 
thoroughly  good  time,  and  they  can  achieve  that 
only  by  making  everybody  else  restive.  If  you  ob- 
ject, you  are  "  grouchy "  and  the  children  are 
warned  to  "  keep  away  from  that  disagreeable 
man  " — which  you  wouldn't  mind  if  they  did  keep 
away.  They  play  behind  the  life-boats,  where  the 
ship's  rail  ceases  to  exist,  and  your  heart  is  in  your 


130 

mouth  at  the  thought  of  possible  disaster.  But  if 
you  mention  danger  to  the  parents,  you  are  snubbed. 
They  are  evidently  willing  to  take  chances. 

Then  your  child  "  won't  play  "  with  some  other 
child,  and  you  fondly  agree  that  the  other  child 
isn't  worth  playing  with;  and  the  parents  of  the 
other  child  come  up,  and  indignantly  complain  that 
your  child  is  badly  behaved,  and  ask  that  it  be 
punished.  And  the  other  children  whisper  about  it, 
and  the  other  parents  take  sides.  The  ship  seems 
alarmingly  small — much  too  small.  You  cannot  take 
your  child  home ;  the  other  parents  cannot  take  their 
children  home.  All  the  poor  things  are  floating 
away  from  home.  The  quarrel  is  soon  settled — in 
order  to  make  room  for  another.  Those  who  have 
no  children  are  always  unnecessarily  interested,  and 
invariably  sorry  for  the  child  that  has  caused  the 
trouble. 

Candy  and  chloroform  are  two  commodities  that 
come  in  handy  for  an  adjustment  of  the  child  ques- 
tion on  board — the  candy  for  the  child,  and  the 
chloroform  for  yourself. 


VII 


FLIRTATIONS 

OTHING  that  the 
Flirt  of  either  sex  has 
ever  imagined  in 
wildest  dream  can 
beat  the  ocean  steam- 
ship  for  "cosy 
corner"  surprises  and 
•nook-y  subtlety.  For 
seven  days  the  Flirt 
of  either  sex  has  an 
imposing  variety  of 
splendidly  furtive  re- 
treats. There  is  no 
place  on  earth — and 
this  isn't  on  earth — 

where  susceptible  lads  and  impressionable  lassies  can 
so  admirably  learn  not  to  know  each  other  as  in  mid- 
Atlantic,  on  the  big  raft  that  is  called  a  ship.  It 
is  there  that  the  genus  Flirt  attains  its  supreme 
fruition,  and  that  hearts  are  trumps,  all  the  way 
over. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  ballroom  was  looked 

131 


132  The  Great  Wet  Way 

upon  as  the  great  parade-ground  of  the  Flirt,  and 
the  mazy  dance  was  regarded  as  the  one  affection- 
ate pastime  for  palpitant  hearts.  That  time  has 
long  since  passed;  modern  improvements  have  killed 
it  dead.  The  ballroom,  with  its  eligible  men,  all 
labelled,  and  its  marriageable  girls,  with  anxious 
mommers  waiting  for  them  by  the  wall,  was  good 
enough  in  its  way.  Everything  is  good  enough  in 
its  way  until  something  better  happens.  This  is  a 
great  age:  only  wait,  and  something  better  is  sure 
to  happen. 

The  curious  thing  about  the  ocean  steamship 
flirtation  is  that  nobody  is  labelled.  That  is  the 
great  charm  of  the  pursuit — for  the  men!  And 
after  all,  why  should  men  invariably  be  disconcerted 
by  the  label  on  the  jar?  In  a  ballroom,  the  sweet 
young  ingenue  knows  the  men  who  are  married,  and 
carefully  avoids  them.  She  reasons,  sanely  enough, 
that  they  have  been  appropriated;  that  they  are  not 
free;  that  it  would  be  waste  of  time  to  dance  with 
another  woman's  husband;  in  fact,  that  it  would  be 
foolish.  In  the  ballroom,  the  "  object  matrimony  " 
legend  is  inevitably  instilled  into  the  girl-heart  by 
her  dowager  mommer,  who  sits  clucking  by  the  wall 
like  an  affectionate  hen. 

This  has  always  been  rather  rough  on  the  men. 
The  ethics  of  a  sound,  a  genuine,  and  a  delicious 
flirtation  do  not  insist  upon  an  unhappy  ending — 


Flirtations 


133 


I  mean,  of  course,  a  happy  ending.  The  utter  and 
deliberate  Flirt  is  untrammelled  by  any  necessity 
to  "  support "  his  pretty  little  accomplice  for  life. 
He  is  a  butterfly,  busily  winging  his  way  from  one 
fair  flower  to  the  other.  And  on  the  transatlantic 
steamship  he  can  "butterfly"  for  all  he  is  worth 
without  shocking  the  conventions. 

It  is  the  "  married  man "  who,  on  earth,  finds 
that  iron-bound  conventions  nip  him  in  the  bud.  It 
is  the  "married  man"  precisely  who  at  sea  dis- 
covers that  the  ship  is  his,  with  all  that  is  delightful 
therein.  His  label  is  discarded  the  very  instant  he 
crosses  the  gang-plank.  He  is  young,  and  free, 
and  ardent,  and  charming  again.  Nobody  can  pos- 
sibly tell  that  he  is  married.  A  woman  generally 
looks  married.  In  some 
indescribable  way,  it  is 
nearly  always  possible 
to  detect  a  girl  who  is 
wedded.  But  a  man  must 
be  ostentatiously  labelled 
before  the  glad  tidings 
can  prevail.  Matrimony 
sets  no  stamp  on  the  man. 
It  used  to  be  that  the 
"  married  man "  was 
known  by  his  neatness, 
his  array  of  buttons  all 


134  The  Great  Wet  Way 

in  the  right  place,  his  sedately  fresh  attire.  That 
is  no  longer  the  case.  Self-respecting  and  emanci- 
pated wives  have  other  fish  to  fry. 

The  "  married  man "  on  board  ship  very  often 
looks  like  a  mere  laughing  lad.  He  is  bright,  clean- 
shaven, alert,  and  fearfully  affectionate.  There  is 
nothing  in  his  make-up  to  indicate  that  he  has  a 
wife  and  children  on  the  distant  shore.  Nobody 
knows  him.  He  has  come  on  board  determined 
not  to  worry,  and  worry  he  won't.  He  has  taken  to 
the  ship  for  rest  and  recreation,  and  he  will  find 
both!  He  scans  the  galaxy  of  travelling  maidens 
with  an  eager  eye,  and  makes  his  selection.  Usually 
his  first  work  is  to  tip  the  deck-steward,  and  tell 
that  susceptible  and  highly-tippable  official  where 
to  place  his  steamer-chair.  He  points  to  the  girl 
he  has  chosen. 

It  is  not  often  that  the  poor  "  married  man " 
finds  himself  let  loose  in  a  "  rosebud  garden  of 
girls,"  to  prowl  around  at  his  sweet  will.  On  land, 
his  condition  is  as  restricted  as  that  of  a  jar  of 
marmalade  that  would  like  to  pose  as  strawberry 
jam,  but  can't,  owing  to  the  label,  and  the  pure-food 
laws,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  At  sea,  he  can 
keep  the  story  of  his  past  to  himself — and  he 
generally  does! — until  it  is  time  to  say  a  fond  fare- 
well on  the  landing-stage. 

In  criminal  law,  every  man  is  innocent  until  he 
has  been  proved  guilty.  On  board  ship,  every  fel- 


Flirtations 


135 


low  is  unmarried  until  he  has  been  proved  married. 
The  man  who  appropriates  the  prettiest  girl  on  the 
ship,  who  chats  with  her  behind  the  life-boats, 
stands  with  her  by  the  rail  looking  into  the  darkening 
sea,  and  reads  poetry  with  her  in  the  silence  of  the 
topmost  deck,  may  be  married,  and  most  certainly  is, 
but  it  would  be  cruel  to  tell  her  so,  would  it  not?  The 
"married  man"  always  hates  to  do  cruel  things.  Why 
scatter  the  illusions 
of  the  prettiest  girl 
on  the  ship? 

If  the  prettiest 
girl  on  the  ship  hap- 
pens to  be  American, 
which  is  usually  the 
case,  she  can  hoist 
any  flirt  by  his  own 
petard.  She  is  not 
worrying  a  bit.  She 
places  her  father  in 
the  smokeroom,  and 
sees  that  he  plays  bridge;  she  sits  her  mother  with 
some  awfully  nice  ladies  who  are  embroidering 
beautiful  things  of  the  useless  persuasion.  They 
have  no  qualms.  They  are  not  crossing  the  Atlantic 
for  the  express  purpose  of  finding  a  husband  for 
their  pretty  girl.  She  may  be  a  flirt;  if  she  is  not, 
she  will  miss  lots  of  fun.  She  can  cope  with  any 
persuasive  and  insinuating  Lothario. 


136  The  Great  Wet  Way 

It  is  only  when  the  prettiest  girl  is  English  that 
the  butterfly  Benedict  is  looked  upon  with  serious 
eyes.  The  English  girl  cannot  chain  her  father  tct 
the  smokeroom,  or  her  mother  to  the  knitting- 
needles.  Father  and  mother  see  that  she  is  flirting. 
What  is  she  flirting  with?  Is  he  of  good  family? 
Is  he  in  a  "position"  to  marry?  Has  he  a  respect- 
able income?  English  parents  always  mean  business. 
They  are  practical  and  unsentimental.  To  them,  a 
steamship  flirtation  is  just  the  same  as  any  other. 
What  they  want  to  know  is  if  he  can  support  their 
darling  in  the  luxury  to  which  she  has  been  ac- 
customed. 

Perhaps  he  could,  if  he  were  not  supporting  some 
other  couple's  darling.  The  English  parents  mak« 
it  their  business  to  institute  enquiries.  They  tackle 
the  poor  fond  man  himself,  and  learn  to  their  horror 
that  he  is  not  only  a  husband,  but  a  father.  He 
means  no  ill.  He  will  not  lie  to  them.  He  is  per- 
fectly innocuous.  Surely  a  man,  on  the  Atlantic 
Ocean,  is  not  obliged  to  marry  every  girl  he  flirts 
with.  Why,  he  has  taken  this  trip  for  rest  and  rec- 
reation, and  these  cold-blooded  English  propositions 
actually  dare  to  suggest 

The  American  girl  never  asks  a  man  to  tell  her 
the  story  of  his  life.  She  is  generally  too  busy 
telling  him  hers.  Nor  will  she  cease  to  talk  with 
him,  in  prim  disgust,  if  she  hears  that  he  has  been 
led  to  the  altar.  It  may  have  happened  very  long 


"Her  father  and  mother  see  that  she  is  flirting" 


Flirtations  137 

ago,  and  he  may  have  nearly  forgotten  it.  After  all 
a  man  is  not  a  criminal,  to  be  ostracised  from  all 
flirtation,  because  somewhere  beyond  the  horizon 
there  is  some  woman  who  perhaps  is  praying  for  him 
— and  who  perhaps  isn't!  The  American  girl  takes 
the  goods  that  the  gods  send,  and  asks  no  questions. 
She  may  be  sentimental,  but  it  is  not  in  the  power  of 
every  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  on  an  ocean  steamship 
to  appeal  to  her  sentiment. 

There  is  one  thing  that  the  pretty  girl  on  board 
ship,  who  is  flirting  with  a  "married  man,"  will  al- 
ways discover,  when  she  knows  that  he  is  married. 
It  is,  that  he  "  doesn't  get  along  with  his  wife."  He 
doesn't  know  why  it  is,  but,  somehow  or  other,  she 
is  not  sympathetic.  She  doesn't  understand  him; 
She  is  a  nice  woman,  otherwise  he  would  never  have 
married  her,  but  she  is  unresponsive,  and — oh,  he 
does  need  the  joy  of  appreciation!  There  is  abso- 
lutely no  excuse  for  divorce,  for  she  is  a  good 
soul;  still  he  has  a  dreary  home-life.  He  is  much 
to  be  pitied.  It  is  really  astonishing  what  a  num- 
ber of  unhappy  husbands  an  ocean  steamship  shel- 
ters. The  marital  unhappiness  seems  to  come  on 
during  the  trip. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  for  that  young  fellow  who  sits 
by  me  at  table,"  said  the  prettiest  girl  on  the  ship 
to  me,  some  time  ago.  "  He  is  married.  He  mar- 
ried when  he  was  a  mere  boy,  before  he  realised 
what  he  was  doing,  and  now  he  regrets  it  with  every 


138  The  Great  Wet  Way 

breath  that  he  takes.  It  is  dreadful  to  think  of, 
isn't  it?" 

It  was  not  dreadful,  but  rather  curious.  Three 
days  previously,  as  we  were  about  to  leave  New 
York,  I  saw  him  fondly  embracing  his  wife  by  the 
gang-plank,  and  promising  to  write  by  every  mail, 
and — he  added,  "  Do  let  the  kids  send  me  a  line." 

Poor  chap!  The  pure  ozone  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean  was  probably  responsible  for  his  strange  hal- 
lucination. In  three  days  it  had  done  its  fell  work. 
This  is  the  real  peril  of  the  Atlantic  of  which  sea- 
men do  not  prate. 

For  the  benefit  of  parents  who  are  novices  on  the 
ocean,  it  would  simplify  matters  a  good  deal  if  the 
transatlantic  Lothario  were  labelled.  Still  after  a 
little  experience,  he  is  not  a  difficult  problem.  It 
may  be  set  down  as  an  unvarying  rule  that  the 
nicest  men  on  the  ship  are  married.  Whenever 
you  see  a  young  man  who  is  "  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  party,"  who  is  jovial,  unabashed,  always  danc- 
ing attendance  on  the  ladies,  perpetually  self-sacri- 
ficing in  his  efforts  to  make  them  comfortable — 
well,  he's  married.  The  man  who  is  the  best  dancer 
at  the  ship's  hop,  whose  name  is  written  on  the 
programmes  of  all  the  choicest  feminine  pets  of  the 
passenger  list,  and  whose  contempt  for  the  smoke- 
room  hermits  is  the  most  picturesquely  expressed — 
is  the  married  man. 

At  the  ship's  dance  the  smokeroom  is  filled  with 


Flirtations  139 

non-dancing  men,  who  consume  unlimited  tobacco 
in  honour  of  the  occasion,  and  play  frenzied  bridge 
and  poker.  These  non-dancing  men  have  no  use  for 
the  frivolities  outside,  could  not  be  bought  to  take 
part  in  such  Coney  Island  amusements  and  speak 
feelingly  of  the  peaceful  life.  These  are  the  elig- 
ibles,  the  unmarried.  They  leave  the  social  pas- 
times of  the  ship  to  the  butterflies,  who  are  always 
married.  They  are  careful.  They  decline  to  com- 
promise themselves.  They  look  askance  at  the 
parents  of  pretty  girls.  They  will  not  permit  any 
dowager  mommer  to  "  make  a  set "  for  them.  They 
are  not  anxious  to  be  "  run  after "  and  cornered. 
They  are  prudent,  and  avoid  rousing  fond  hopes  in 
the  breasts  of  the  susceptible.  They  steer  clear  of 
foolish  entanglements. 

What  cares  the  "  married  man"?  Nothing  at  all. 
His  heart  is  as  light  as  gossamer.  He  is  "  fancy  free." 
He  is  having  the  time  of  his  life.  For  him  the 
gaieties  of  the  ship  have  been  organised.  Watch 
him  two-stepping  down  the  deck,  in  the  very  latest 
style,  with  one  pretty  girl  after  another  clasped  un- 
resistingly to  his  frilled  and  spotless  shirt-front  I  He 
is  whispering  sweet  nothings  in  her  ear.  He  is  tick- 
ling her  creamy  cheek  with  his  moustache,  if  he  hap- 
pens to  possess  one,  and  if  he  doesn't  he  gets  along 
very  well — thanks — and  he  is  saying  sentimental 
things  about  the  moonlight  on  the  ocean.  The  longer 
he  has  been  married,  the  nicer  he  is. 


140 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


If  you  look  upon  this  in  a  certain  light — and  it 
must  be  a  very  certain  light — you  will  perceive  that 
it  is  a  delicate  compliment  to  women.  For  the  "  mar- 
ried man  "  proves  that  wedded  life  has  done  much 


for  him.  It  has  taught  him  how  to  appreciate  the  sex 
in  general.  He  likes  nearly  all  the  women — except 
the  very  ugly  ones.  He  can  anticipate  their  wishes 
and  make  their  trip  worth  while.  And  he  does.  He 
certainly  does. 

You  see  that  handsome,  loquacious  Adonis,  with  the 
pretty  girl  in  white?  He  has  decided  that  she  has 
been  dancing  too  much.  He  is  telling  her  how  fool- 


Flirtations  141 

teh  it  is  for  her  to  over-dance,  and  exhaust  herself. 
He  is  arranging  her  cloak,  so  that  she  shall  not  catch 
cold  in  the  night  air,  for  after  a  dance  girls  are  par- 
ticularly susceptible  to  cold.  She  is  walking  away 
with  him  to  some  quieter  part  of  the  ship,  because 
he  thinks  it  will  be  good  for  her.  He  is  very  un- 
selfish. Much  as  he  loves  dancing,  he  will  leave  the 
giddy  scene  for  her  sake,  and  repair  to  the  gloomy 
side  of  the  ship,  where  there  is  no  light,  and  life, 
and  music,  and  festivity.  She  looks  so  tired,  and  he 
is  so  solicitous.  Well,  he's  married. 

Very  often  the  gossip  of  the  ship  has  it  that  Mr. 
So-and-So  is  engaged  to  the  nice  girl  whose  shadow 
he  has  become.  All  the  other  men  on  the  boat,  in 
brotherly  consideration,  keep  away,  unwilling  to  pose 
as  spoil-sports.  Mr.  So-and-So  never  leaves  her 
side.  He  is  at  breakfast  with  her  (a  tip  to  the  sec- 
ond steward  has  yielded  him  the  desired  proximity 
at  the  saloon  table)  ;  he  is  at  luncheon  with  her,  and 
through  every  course  of  the  long  dinner  he  is  her 
other  self.  He  promenades  the  deck  with  her;  he 
sits  beside  her  when  she  is  steamer-chaired;  he  ar- 
ranges her  rugs  around  her;  he  fetches  and  carries 
for  her;  he  frowns  if  she  speaks  to  anybody.  Every- 
body on  the  ship,  from  the  Captain  downwards,  says 
that  such  a  case  has  never  before  been  seen.  It  is 
a  genuine  instance  of  love  at  first  sight.  Well,  he's 
married. 

Whenever  you  see  a  diffident,  ramshackle  sort  of 


142  The  Great  Wet  Way 

a  creature,  who  sits  alone,  or  promenades  the  deck 
with  the  New  England  spinster,  and  is  somewhat 
surly,  and  inclined  to  over-read,  and  to  over-sit,  and 
to  over-sleep;  who  has  no  life  and  no  geniality,  who 
takes  a  cynical  view  of  the  trip,  and  seems  to  want 
to  get  to  wherever  he  is  going — well,  he's  unmarried. 

The  "  married  man  "  never  wants  to  get  there — 
especially  when  he  is  going  home.  He  is  a  philos- 
opher, satisfied  with  the  present.  An  anxiety  to  get 
anywhere  when  you  are  in  charming  society  is  a 
sort  of  left-handed  compliment  to  the  charming 
society.  The  "  married  man  "  is  convinced  that  the 
ocean  steamship  is  a  good  thing,  and  that  he  can  en- 
joy himself  more  comfortably  on  board  than  would 
be  possible  in  either  London  or  New  York.  The 
life  appeals  to  him — a  butterfly  in  a  "  rosebud  gar- 
den of  girls."  People  who  are  always  looking  for- 
ward to  something  gorgeous  in  the  future — which 
generally  forgets  to  happen — are  bores.  They  are 
also  ingrates.  The  present  is  a  "  bird  in  the  hand," 
the  future  is  the  "  two  in  the  bush."  The  "  married 
man  "  is  satisfied  to  leave  the  future  to  the  vapid 
little  nincompoops  who  are  afraid  that  the  girls 
are  "  setting  their  caps  "  for  them.  All  this  makes 
the  "married  man"  delighted.  Without  him  the 
trip  would  be  as  dreary  as  the  desert  of  Sahara.  He 
is  positively  fluffy  with  irresponsible  joy. 

Do  not  imagine  for  one  moment  that  the  "mar- 
ried man  "  is  a  disturber  of  the  feminine  peace.  If 


Flirtations 


143 


he  be,  it  is  because  the  feminine  peace  is  perfectly 
willing  and  anxious  to  be  disturbed.  Girls  do  not 
invariably  cross  the  ocean  for  their  health,  or  just 
to  get  somewhere.  They  will  flirt  with  somebody 
or  something,  or  know  the  reason  why.  On  board 
ship  the  maiden  is  not  haughty,  or  unapproachable. 
If  you  wish  her  good-day,  she  does  not  draw  herself 
up  to  her  full  height,  and  exclaim,  "  Sir !  "  She  is 
waiting  for  somebody  to  wish  her  good-day,  and  is 
perfectly  prepared  to  take  the  initiative,  if  necessary. 
Even  the  unlovely  girl,  who  on  earth  has  a  dull 
time  of  it,  discovers  different  conditions  on  the 
ocean.  With  a  little  energy,  and  by  the  exercise 
of  a  certain  amount 
of  will-power,  she 
often  succeeds  in 
unhooking  a  flirta- 
tion. She  is  very 
vivacious,  and  much 
to  the  point.  She 
is  a  hard-worker, 
and  she  seems  to  be 
on  her  mettle.  The 
conventions  of  the 
ship  dispense  with 
formal  introduc- 
tions, and  she  never 
has  to  wait  for 
somebody  to  ask 


144 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


to  be  introduced  to  her.  The  formal  introduction 
is  the  undoing  of  so  many  women  on  dry  land.  It 
is  a  pity  that  the  suffragette  does  not  denounce  the 
formal  introduction.  It  is  fatal. 

During  one  trip  I  took  particular  pleasure  in 
watching  the  "work"  of  one  energetic  maiden,  who 
— poor  thing! — belonged  to  the  ranks  of  the  un- 
wanted. She  lay  idle  for  a  day — just  to  give  the  ship 
a  chance  to  settle  itself,  and  also  to  make  certain  that 
she  was  likely  to  be  unattached  during  the  trip.  At 
the  end  of  the  day  she  had  evidently  made  up  her 
mind  that  there  was  nothing  doing.  So  she  buckled 
on  her  armour,  like  a  brave  little  Joan  of  Arc,  and 
rushed  into  the  fray.  She  had  one 
speech  that  she  relied  upon  to  help 
her.  I  heard  her  deliver  it  to  eight 
men. 

"  I  think  Parrus  is  just  a  horrid 
place,"  she  said.  "  I  was  there  for 
two  weeks,  and,  honestly,  I  was 
afraid  to  go  out.  The  men  stare  at 
you  sol  They  turn  round,  and  look 
at  you,  and — several  times,  I  was  fol- 
lowed. I  was  so  scared  that  I  didn't 
know  what  to  do.  Now,  I've  lived 
in  New  York  all  my  life,  and  I  can 
safely  say  that  I  have  never  been  followed.  It  is 
very  distressing,  is  it  not?  Give  me  American  men 
any  day.  To  talk  of  the  politeness  and  the  courtesy 


Flirtations 

of  the  Frenchman  is  ridiculous.  What  woman  likes 
being  ogled  in  the  public  streets  by  these  persistent 
mashers?  Several  times,  I  reached  my  hotel  trem- 
bling and  crying.  I  have  never  been  accustomed 
to  such  treatment  by  American  men." 

Evidently  American  men  have  better  taste  than 
their  French  brothers.  The  victim  of  Paris'  wiles, 
however,  by  injecting  the  "  personal  note  "  into  her 
promiscuous  remarks,  managed  to  gain  attention.  It 
is  the  "  personal  note"  that  tells.  A  girl  on  board 
ship  can  talk  for  hours  on  impersonal  matters,  and 


146 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


discuss  the  classics  in  every  style,  without  spearing  a 
flirtation.  Let  her  get  personal,  and  the  result  is 
exactly  otherwise. 

In  the  case  I  have  just  mentioned,  success  was 
reached  at  the  end  of  the  third  day.  On  day  No.  4 
I  saw  the  denouncer  of  poor  old  Paris  promenading 
the  deck  with  a  tired-looking  old  specimen,  from  the 
wooly  west,  and  she  never  released  him  until  the 
boat  docked  in  Hoboken.  On  land,  this  amiable 
creature  might  have  worked  for  years,  and  probably 
had,  without  winning.  The  old  specimen  on  board 

is  easy  prey,  and  he  is  always 
there.  There  is  no  fool  like 
an  old  fool. 

One  of  the  most  amusing 
flirtations   I   have   ever   seen, 
was  that  of  a  very  nice  little 
girl    with    her   violin-teacher. 
He  was  going  abroad  to  see 
S_  J      his  people,  and  she,  with  her 
, '  ^A     mommer,    had   conceived   the 
delightful  idea  of  making  the 
same    trip.     Now,    I    always 
think  that  anybody  who 
teaches  the  violin,  must  have 
v<?/n  the   constitution    of   a   horse, 
and  must  be  filled  with  loathing  for  his  unhappy 
pupils.     Perhaps  this  particular  teacher  shared  my 
feelings  as  we  left  New  York.     At  any  rate,  his 


Flirtations  147 

pretty  pupil  and  her  mommer  did  not  seem  inex- 
pressibly dear  to  him. 

But  no  sooner  had  we  plunged  into  the  bounding 
billows  than  that  musical  little  lassie  left  her  violin 
to  the  mercies  of  her  stateroom  stewardess,  and 
"made  "  for  the  teacher.  Mommer  had  evidently 
traversed  the  Atlantic  before.  Mommer  knew  what 
she  was  about.  The  violin  teacher,  after  tempo- 
rary struggle  for  liberty,  born  of  the  instinct  of  self- 
preservation,  succumbed.  She  was  a  pretty  girl,  and 
an  enthusiast.  She  was  beside  him  all  day,  in  an 
ecstasy  of  music.  She  looked  into  his  eyes  with  the 
tender  melancholy  of  Chopin ;  she  sat  in  silent  reverie 
with  the  dreamy  wistfulness  of  Tschaikowsky ;  she 
was  sometimes  roused  to  the  fervour  and  thunder  of 
Wagner;  she  was  light  and  coquettish  in  the  merry 
moods  of  Planquette  and  Lecocq,  and  she  never  lost 
an  opportunity  of  catering  to  the  music  that  was  in 
him. 

The  poor  man  was  never  left  alone  for  a  moment. 
She  was  known  on  the  ship  as  his  "  star  "  pupil.  She 
played  at  the  concert,  and  he  accompanied  her.  She 
was  congratulated  for  his  sake,  and  he  was  congrat- 
ulated for  hers.  At  first  he  used  to  try  to  run  away, 
but  he  gave  that  up,  for  she  followed  him — and 
mommer  followed  her !  This  girl  had  been  "  study- 
ing "  with  him  for  a  year,  and  there  had  been  no  flir- 
tation. On  land,  escape  is  always  possible.  There 
are  so  many  places  to  hide  in.  It  was  the  sea  that 


148  The  Great  Wet  Way 

did  for  him.  It  was  the  Atlantic  Ocean  that  mad* 
the  violin  teacher  look  so  good  to  her. 

Whether  this  instructor  ever  succeeded  in  seeing 
his  people,  I  never  knew.  It  seemed  highly  improb- 
able. In  Amsterdam  whom  should  I  meet  but 
teacher,  and  pupil,  and  mommer?  In  Brussels, 
whom  should  I  note,  seated  at  a  cafe,  but  teacher, 
and  pupil,  and  mommer?  Even  in  Paris,  which  is  a 
silly  place  for  purposes  of  flirtation,  there,  on  the 
crowded  Boulevards,  I  saw  that  thin  young  violin 
teacher  being  towed  along  by  pupil  and  mommer, 
who  were  protecting  him  from  the  insults  of  Boule' 
yard  life.  What  can  there  be  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean's 
ozone  to  achieve  such  wondrous  results?  Someday, 
perhaps,  we  shall  know.  I  incline  to  the  belief  that 
it  is  a  germ,  a  theory  which  always  explains  every- 
thing, and  nothing,  and  is  therefore  very  useful. 

I  have  apparently  omitted  the  "  married  woman  " 
from  the  list  of  transatlantic  flirts.  Please  do  not 
think  that  the  "  married  woman  "  sits  by  herself  all 
day,  and  crochets  comforters  for  the  dear  one,  or 
even  embroiders  table-centres  for  "  the  home."  The 
"  married  woman  "  is  very  often  young  and  pretty, 
and  there  is  no  reason  on  earth  why  she  shouldn't  be. 

She  may  have  cried  her  eyes  out  on  the  dock,  as 
she  said  good-bye  to  the  cherished  soul  who  had 
given  her  his  name,  and  who  was  obliged  to  stay  at 
home  and  slave  for  a  living.  She  may  have  looked 
so  intensely  miserable  that  your  heart  went  out  to 


Flirtations  149 

her  in  swiftest  sympathy,  and  the  horrors  of  parting 
were  brought  vividly  home  to  you. 

Time  heals  all  wounds — even  on  land.  At  sea  it 
heals  them  by  rapid-transit  methods  that  do  the  work 
in  a  day,  and  sometimes  sooner.  The  poor  little  wife, 
whose  acute  grief  at  the  dock  touched  you  so  impres- 
sively, has  dried  her  tears  by  the  time  the  boat  has 
passed  Fire  Island.  Why  grieve?  He  would  not 
wish  her  to  grieve.  He  would  tell  her  to  cheer  up, 
and  have  a  good  time.  And  she  does.  She  does  not 
tat,  or  knit.  She  looks  around  her  with  altruistic 
eyes,  and — well,  she  may  as  well  make  the  best  of  it. 

She  could  seek  the  acquaintanceship  of  some  very 
nice  old  ladies  who  are  members  of  the  Woman's 
Christian  Temperance  Union,  and  very  good  com- 
pany. She  could  sit  in  the  music-room  (I  regret  to 
say  that  I  have  heard  it  called  the  hennery)  and  talk 
about  servants,  and  household  expenses,  and  little 
Susan's  pinafores,  with  some  sweet  and  domesticated 
matrons  whom  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  know.  She 
could  parade  the  deck  with  the  New  England  spin- 
ster, and  have  a  very  jolly  time  listening  to  that 
siren's  persiflage. 

Somehow  or  other,  she  indulges  in  none  of  these 
simple  pastimes.  Before  long  you  note  that  she 
appears  to  be  killing  time  quite  agreeably  with  an 
exceedingly  nice-looking  young  man,  who  is  most 
attentive.  Of  course,  she  is  telling  him  all  about  her 
husband,  and  her  happy  home  life,  and  discoursing 


150 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


on  the  joys  of  matrimony.  He  seems  extremely  in- 
terested. It  is  an  interesting  topic.  She  never 
appears  to  exhaust  it  either.  Often,  as  you  are  tak- 
ing your  last  prowl  around  the  deck,  before  turning 
in  for  the  night,  you  come  across  them  where  the 

lights  are  low, 
talking  in  sub- 
dued tones,  and 
looking  up  at  the 
stars.  Perhaps  he 
saw  her  grief  at 
the  dock,  as  hubby 
faded  into  the 
shadows,  and  is 
trying  to  comfort 
8i£  her  aching  heart. 

When  you  say 
good-bye  to  the  transatlantic  passengers  at  the  dock, 
and  mop  the  furtive  tears  from  your  eyes  as  you 
see  their  anguish  and  heart-wrench,  you  imagine  that 
he — or  she — will  weep  steadily  all  the  way  over,  and 
that  there  will  be  no  solace,  no  balm  in  Gilead.  Try 
and  rid  yourself  of  this  erroneous  belief.  It  is  a 
mortal  error.  The  transatlantic  passenger,  whether 
he,  she,  married,  or  unmarried,  will  be  as  jolly  as  a 
sandboy  precisely  one  hour  after  you  have  dragged 
yourself  wearily  away  from  the  cruel  dock  to  the 
deserted  home.  You  can  safely  reckon  upon  the  At- 
lantic ozone  to  kill  all  grief,  however  demonstrative 


Flirtations 


it  may  have  been  in  your  presence.  And  is  not  that 
a  glorious  knowledge?  Is  it  not  food  for  rejoicing? 

'Tis  better  thus,  surely.  The  lassie  will  find  recre- 
ation, the  lad  will  unearth  a  pastime,  the  Benedict 
will  secure  comfort,  the  matron  will  discover  salve. 
There  is  a  very  pretty  song  called,  "  Oh,  Dry  Those 
Tears,"  but  nobody  need  sing  it  to  the  ocean  travel- 
ler. His  tears  will  dry  spontaneously  in  the  pleasant 
warmth  of  the  flirtatious  steamship.  The  way  peo- 
ple weep  at  the  farewell  dock  is  extraordinary,  but 
it  is  a  custom,  and  all  nicely  regulated  men  and 
women  like  to  do  the  right  thing.  It  is  always  a 
comfort  to  know  that  one  has  done  the  right  thing. 
Women  sail  away  with  red  noses,  and  men  with  sus- 
piciously rosy  eyelids,  and  they  are  the  very  people 
who  will  be  the  merriest  and  most  flirtatious  people 
on  board.  The  girl  who  is  the  most  inveterate  flirt 
on  the  ship  is  the  girl  who  cried  the  most  bitterly  at 
the  dock.  The  man  whose  farewells  were  the  most 
protracted  and  painful,  and  whose  agony  you  could 
scarcely  bear  to  look  at,  is  the  man  you  will  note  as 
the  gayest  Lothario  of  the  throng. 

The  swirl  of  the  Atlantic  seems  to  give  the  im- 


152  The  Great  Wet  Way 

petus  to  flirtation,  and  those  who  can  resist  it  are  the 
freaks  of  the  trip.  Of  course,  it  is  possible  to  abstain. 
The  man  who  is  travelling  with  his  wife  is  often  able 
to  abstain.  She  sees  to  that.  The  wife  who  is  trav- 
elling with  her  husband  is  also  able  to  abstain,  unless 
he  happens  to  be  busy  in  the  smokeroom  playing 
bridge.  It  is  possible  not  to  flirt,  but  it  is  very  diffi- 
cult, and  it  is  very  foolish  to  try  not  to  do  so.  If 
you  fail,  you  feel  so  silly.  You  realise  that  your  will- 
power is  not  in  good  condition.  You  find  yourself 
at  it  in  spite  of  your  resolutions.  Moreover,  why  be 
eccentric?  Why  try  to  attract  attention  by  marked 
originality,  which  is  not  all  that  it  is  cracked  up  to 
be?  Why  be  a  non-flirt,  surrounded  on  all  sides  by 
flirts?  I  have  no  patience  with  such  people,  but  I 
am  obliged  to  admit  that  I  have  met  very  few  of 
them. 

What  the  briny  deep  doesn't  do  to  the  loving  heart 
is  not  worth  mentioning. 


VIII 
PATRIOTISM 

UPPOSE  that  just  to 
"make  conversation "  a 
perfect  stranger  came  up 
to  you,  and  told  you  that 
he  considered  the  suit  of 
clothes  you  were  wear- 
ing the  worst-fitting  gar- 
ments he  had  ever  seen; 
that  the  cut  was  inartis- 
tic, the  cloth  poor  and 
badly  produced,  and  the 
general  effect  displeasing.  Suppose  he  went  on  to 
say  that  the  only  tailor  who  could  make  a  decent 
suit  of  clothes  was  his  own,  and  asked  you  to  cast 
an  eye  on  his  irreproachable  attire,  admirably  con- 
ceived, faultlessly  executed,  comfortable,  and  yet  pic- 
turesque. You  would  probably  look  upon  this  per- 
fect stranger  as  an  ill-bred  boor,  not  worth  answer- 
ing, and  bestowing  upon  him  a  haughty  look  of 
frigid  contempt,  you  would  turn  on  your  heel  and 
leave  him,  lamenting.  You  would  think  that  he 
was  lacking  in  the  very  first  elements  of  courtesy. 

On  board  ship    you  will  meet  scores  of  strange 
people  who,  while  they  would  hesitate  at  abusing 

153 


154 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


your  clothes,  will  make  most  uncomplimentary  re- 
marks about  your  country.  They  will  tell  you  that 
they  do  not  like  your  country  at  all ;  that  they  spent 
a  few  months  there,  and  found  everything  most  prim- 
itive, and  behind-the-times ;  that  they  laughed  at  one 
thing,  and  fumed  at  another,  and  that  if  you  wanted 
to  see  civilisation  in  its  really  advanced  form,  you 
must  visit  their  country — the  only  country  in  the 
world  worth  living  in,  and  worth  studying. 

At  this  you  may  not  take  umbrage.    Even  though 
such  remarks  may  be  as  rude  and  as  unnecessary  as 
_$~  comments    about    your 

clothes  and  your  per- 
sonal  appearance,  you 
must  smile  agreeably, 
and  show  no  sign  of  vex- 

Iation.     For    the    people 
* 
who     boom     their     own 

country  at  the  expense 
of  yours,  ar  e — P  A  - 
TRIOTS! 

You  always  meet  pa- 
triots on  an  ocean  steamship.  There  is  no  way 
of  escaping  from  them.  They  are  as  thick  and 
as  inevitable  as  flies  at  a  country  boarding-house 
breakfast-table  in  June,  and  they  are  even  more  ag- 
gressive. However,  you  can  have  a  great  deal  of 
fun  with  them.  You  can  "  draw  them  out,"  and 
revel  in  their  absurdities,  and  you  can  study  bigotry, 


Patriotism  155 

provincialism,  and  egotism  on  an  ocean  steamship 
as  you  can  study  them  nowhere  else.  You  find 
patriotism  there  in  luxuriance  and  perfection.  It  is 
tinsel  patriotism,  of  course,  but  it  masquerades  as 
the  genuine  article,  just  as  many  cheap  things  do 
ephemeral  duty  for  more  expensive  ones.  It  is  imi- 
tation patriotism.  It  is  like  the  string  of  paste  beads 
that  Sarah  Jane  wears  around  her  neck  on  Sunday, 
in  flattering  imitation  of  the  gems  she  has  noticed  on 
her  mistress'  throat  when  that  lady  went  forth  to 
the  opera. 

Real  patriotism  is  very  much  like  religion — a  sen- 
timent not  expressed,  but  felt  in  the  innermost  re- 
cesses. You  are  born  in  a  certain  country,  just  as 
you  are  born  to  a  certain  religion.  Personal  choice, 
in  either  case,  is  out  of  the  question.  You  love  your 
country  unreasoningly,  with  all  its  faults;  you  re- 
spect your  religion  in  a  similar  way,  even  though 
you  may  not  live  up  to  it.  This  is  something  deep- 
down  and  ineradicable.  It  is  not  particularly  noble, 
when  it  is  mere  instinct,  but  it  may  emerge  from 
that,  and  become  intelligent  appreciation  and  artis- 
tic satisfaction. 

The  real  patriots,  on  an  ocean  steamer,  are  not 
the  people  who  butt  in  on  your  natal  idiosyncrasies, 
who  tread  on  your  pet  corns,  and  who  say  impolite 
things  with  a  sort  of  polite  belligerency.  They  are 
not  the  people  whose  object  it  is  to  force  your  re- 
luctant admission  that  their  country  is  better  than 


156  The  Great  Wet  Way 


yours.  The  real  patriots  are  not  controversialists; 
they  are  not  the  vain  and  foolish  folks  who  feel  a 
contempt  for  what  they  do  not  possess.  The  real 
patriots  are  the  silent  people.  They  are  unnoticea- 
ble.  They  would  scorn  to  subject  their  love  of 
country  to  idle  argument  with  strangers.  They  are 
serious,  and  not  at  all  amusing.  It  is  the  others,  the 
tinsel  patriots,  of  whom  there  is  a  copious  supply  on 
every  steamship,  that  add  to  the  gaiety  of  nations — 
generally  the  nations  to  which  they  do  not  belong, 
but  not  infrequently  to  the  very  nations  that  claim 
them. 

The  tinsel  patriot  is  the  person  who  loves  his 
country  just  because  it  is  his  country.  He  can  see 
no  good  in  any  other  that  does  not  chance  to  have 
produced  him.  His  country  must  be  the  best,  be- 
cause— well,  there  he  is,  an  unanswerable  argu- 
ment in  its  favour,  with  his  wife,  and  his  children. 
He  knows  little  of  his  country's  history,  and  cares 
less,  and  as  for  any  other  country's  history,  it 
would  be  waste  of  time  to  bother  with  it.  This 
delicious  vanity  and  this  exquisite  conceit  make 


Patriotism  •  157 

the  tinsel  patriot  quite  an  entertaining  pastime, 
humour. 

The  tinsel  patriot  of  England  pats  himself  on  the 
back,  and  says  what  a  good  boy  is  he  as  he  leaves 
the  United  States.  The  tinsel  patriot  of  the  United 
States,  who  has  "  done  "  Europe  in  a  hurry,  buys  an 
American  flag,  and  waves  it  ostentatiously  on  the 
home-going  steamer.  That  the  subject  of  patriot- 
ism is  almost  sacred  never  occurs  to  them.  They 
are  pleased  with  themselves,  and  they  patronise  their 
country  very  charmingly  indeed.  It  is  the  least  that 
they  can  do  to  show  their  country  that  it  did  a 
clever  thing  when  it  made  itself  theirs. 

The  tinsel  patriot  is  lacking  in  all  imagination. 
He  can  imagine  nothing  good  in  any  country  that 
has  so  far  forgotten  itself  as  to  deny  him  birth.  He 
visits  other  countries  just  to  revel  in  their  imperfec- 
tions, and  these  imperfections  it  is  his  pleasing  duty 
to  "  rub  in."  He  glories  in  his  work.  His  com- 
parisons are  always  "  odorous,"  and  he  spends  his 
time  looking  for  trouble,  which  he  usually  finds 
waiting  for  him.  His  patriotism  is  laid  on  with 
a  trowel.  It  is  inflicted  upon  every  listener.  It 
is  heard  above  the  murmur  of  the  Atlantic  on  deck; 
it  fights  its  way  through  the  fumes  of  the  smoke- 
room;  it  buzzes  in  the  conversation  at  the  dinner 
table;  in  fact,  it  makes  things  lively  all  the  way 
over — and  whichever  way  it  is!  It  is  a  great  rec- 
reation for  the  cosmopolitan  hearer — the  man  who 


158  The  Great  Wet  Way 

finds  "  books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in 
stones,  and  good  in  everything." 

The  tinsel  patriot  loves  to  hear  himself  talk, 
and — does  not  talk  in  whispers.  He  wants  the 
whole  world  to  hear  what  he  has  to  say!  His 
impressions,  he  will  tell  you,  with  delightful 
diffidence,  are  nothing  more  than  cursory  impres- 
sions, but  they  are  to  the  point.  He  declines  to 
beat  about  the  bush.  What  he  has  seen,  he  has  seen, 
and  he  intends  to  abide  by  his  decision.  And  he 
certainly  will.  The  tinsel  patriot  takes  very  un- 
kindly to  argument — if  he  can  find  anybody  foolish 
enough  to  argue  with  him.  When  I  am  there  he 
can  find  me !  I  love  to  argue  with  him.  Whatever 
his  nationality  may  be,  I  love  to  plunge  with  him 
into  dispute.  Fiendish?  Perhaps.  But  sometimes 
time  drags,  and  I  do  not  play  shuffleboard.  When 
the  morn  is  bright  on  deck,  I  like  to  seek  out  the 
merry  tinsel  patriot,  and  let  him  give  me  fits.  This 
may  be  a  morbid  taste,  but  'tis  mine  own.  On  one 
occasion  I  met  an  Englishman  who  was  going  home 
with  his  wife  and  his  sister-in-law,  after  six  weeks 
spent  in  the  United  States.  He  was  very  droll. 

"  You  see  this  watch,"  he  said,  holding  up  a  gold 
hunter.  "  Well,  I  kept  it  at  London  time  all  the 
while  I  was  in  America.  I  simply  would  not  change 
it.  It  seemed  to  me  that  to  set  my  watch  by  the  New 
York  clocks  would  be  unpatriotic.  It  made  me  feel 
that  I  was  not  so  far  away  when  I  could  look  at  my 


Patriotism 

watch,    and    see    what 
time  it  was  in  London." 

"  It  must  have  been 
very  awkward,"  I  sug- 
gested, thinking  of  the 
discomfort  of  break- 
fasting  in  New  York 
when  his  watch  indicated  two  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon; of  lunching  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and 
of  dining  in  the  wee  sma'  hours  of  the  morning. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  said.  "  I  got  in  the  habit  of 
deducting  five  hours.  I  had  to  make  allowances  for 
so  much  when  I  was  in  the  United  States  that  I 
had  no  objection  to  doing  it  in  the  matter  of  time. 
I  suppose  if  I  had  been  going  to  live  in  the  United 
States,  I  should  have  been  obliged  to  adopt  the  time 
of  the  country.  I  should  not  have  done  it  without  a 
great  struggle." 

He  was  very  proud  of  himself.  He  told  every- 
body of  his  remarkable  sacrifice.  He  confided  to  all 
the  Americans  on  the  boat  that  he  was  delighted  to 
be  going  home,  carrying  with  him  the  unbudging 
London  time.  And  then  he  launched  into  the  usual 
dissertations  of  the  tinsel  English  patriot,  on  the  over- 
heated American  rooms,  and  the  bumpy  American 
streets,  and  the  discord  and  din  of  New  York.  He 
liked  to  jump  out  of  his  bed  in  the  morning,  and 
crack  the  ice  in  the  water  pitcher,  instead  of  finding 
himself  in  a  steam-heated  apartment,  ready  to  take 


160  The  Great  Wet  Way 

cold  the  instant  he  went  out.  He  wouldn't  live  in 
New  York  if  you  laid  gold  at  his  feet.  And  no- 
body offered  to  do  this. 

His  wife  and  his  sister-in-law  nodded  their  heads 
approvingly.  They  felt  that  he  was  doing  his  duty 
to  his  country  by  his  impoliteness,  which  was,  of 
course,  patriotism.  Yet  this  man  was  otherwise 
courteous.  He  would  have  been  careful  to  avoid 
hurting  the  feelings  of  his  fellowmen  in  any  other 
direction.  The  tinsel  patriot  is  like  the  dog  with  a 
bone.  The  dog  may  be  a  kind,  gentle,  docile,  and 
sympathetic  animal,  but  when  he  has  a  bone,  he 
growls — leave  him  with  it,  and  beware  of  him. 

Many  people  travel,  but  few  of  them  are  trav- 
ellers. They  are  merely  tourists.  English  and 
American  tourists  explore  the  recesses  of  the  world, 
apparently  to  discover  points  of  resemblance  with 
their  own  little  niche.  When  these  recesses  differ 
from  the  niche,  they  differ  unfavourably.  I  met  a 
Hungarian  who  was  going  back  to  Budapest,  after 
a  year  spent  in  New  York  and  other  American 
cities. 

"  I'm  tired  of  it,"  he  said.  "  One  can't  get  any- 
thing to  eat  in  the  United  States." 

At  first  I  thought  that  he  was  joking.  There  are 
many  things  that  Americans  cannot  do,  but  they 
certainly  can  eat!  It  is  a  pastime  of  which  they 
are  very  fond.  But  the  Hungarian  was  serious.  He 
missed  his  Hungarian  dainties,  his  paprika'd  deli- 


Patriotism  161 

cacies  and  the  singularities  of  his  native  fare.  I 
argued  with  him  pathetically,  for  I  had  found  Buda- 
pest's gastronomy  somewhat  difficult  to  fathom.  He 
persisted.  There  was  nothing  to  eat  in  America — 
but  mere  food.  One  wearied  of  food.  It  grew 
monotonous.  He  declined  to  go  into  detail.  I  ex- 
patiated touchingly  on  the  glory  of  New  York's  res- 
taurants, and  sketched  a  few  fashionable  "lobster- 
palaces,"  where  the  epicures  of  the  world  had  found 
nothing  to  criticise. 

"  I've  been  everywhere,'*  he  said,  "  and  I  was 
always  hungry.  American  fare  would  kill  me.  I 
cannot  endure  it.  So  I  return  to  my  native  land." 

The  French  patriot  has  Paris  Boulevards  on  the 
brain.  He  is  disgusted  with  Broadway,  and  he  says 
so  in  unqualified  terms, 
though  he  is  always  very 
polite.  When  he  meets 
you  on  deck  he  takes  off 
his  hat,  even  though  he 
be  going  to  tell  you  that 
he  finds  your  country 
most  unsatisfactory.  Of 
course  a  steamship  is" 
neutral  ground,  and  the 
patriot  feels  that  he  can 
be  disagreeable  with  im- 
punity. Moreover,  the 
average  tourist  has 


162  The  Great  Wet  Way 

slighted  his  home  for  so  long  that  he  considers  it 
his  duty  to  do  all  that  he  can  for  it,  now  that  he  is 
returning.  He  has  crossed  the  Atlantic  for  recre- 
ation in  other  lands — the  villain!  Many  people 
might  infer  that  his  own  land  was  not  good  enough 
for  him  to  recreate  in.  He  hastens  to  correct  the 
error. 

The  American  tinsel  patriot  is  more  amusing 
than  the  European  article,  because  he  is  more  in- 
genuous, and  says  such  gorgeous  things  in  defence 
of  his  native  heath.  He  is  particularly  anxious  on 
the  return  trip  to  let  everybody  know  that  what  he 
has  seen  abroad  has  pained  him  acutely;  also  that 
he  never  intends  to  go  again.  (This  is  the  patriot 
who,  invariably,  will  make  another  trip  next  year.) 
He  will  probably  be  interviewed  by  the  newspaper 
of  his  native  town,  and  will  be  lovely  to  the  extent 
of  a  column. 

"  New  York  has  Parrus  beaten  to  death,"  said  an 
American  patriotess  last  year.  "  I  was  never  so  dis- 
appointed in  my  life.  The  women  dress  as  New 
York  women  would  scorn  to  dress,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  my  gowns  made  in  Parrus  if  they  gave  them 
to  me  for  nothing " 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  bought  no  dresses  all 
the  time  you  were  in  Paris?"  I  asked,  feeling  quite 
sure  that  she  had  a  trunk  full  of  Paris  confections. 

"  Oh,  I  bought  a  few,"  she  said  carelessly.  "I 
want  to  show  my  New  York  friends  what  the  much- 


Patriotism  163 

advertised  Parrus  gowns  are  like — how  inferior  they 
are.  Why,  I  can  go  downtown  in  New  York,  and 
buy  an  elegant  suit,  ready-made — pay  a  trifle  for 
alterations — and  wear  what  everybody  is  wearing. 
You  can't  do  that  in  Parrus.  You  can  hunt  all  over 
Parrus  for  styles,  and  then  have  to  tell  a  dress- 
maker what  you  want.  In  New  York  you  buy  what 
you  have  got  to  have,  and  there  is  no  trouble  at  all." 

This  discussion  was  a  bit  too  deep  for  me.  Dry- 
goods  stores  are  very  interesting,  of  course,  and  very 
human,  and  the  feminine  patriot  naturally  glances 
at  them  in  her  travels.  Still,  I  did  not  find  that  I 
could  cope  with  the  coquettish  topic,  so  I  switched 
off  to  other  subjects. 

"Admit,"  I  said,  "  that  Paris  is  a  beautiful  city. 
Now  I  ask  you  if  there  is  anything  in  New  York  to 
compare  with  the  Place  de  la  Concorde?" 

Floored,  this  time,  I  thought  to  myself  triumph- 
antly, not  that  I  hold  any  particular  brief  for  the 
Place  de  la  Concorde.  I  was  mistaken.  The  lady 
was  not  floored  by  any  means. 

"  Oh,  the  Place  dee  la  Concorde  is  all  right,"  she 
said.  "  All  right  for  Parrus.  New  York  is  too  busy, 
and  too  progressive  to  waste  places  like  that.  The 
Place  dee  la  Concorde  is  a  wicked  waste  of  space. 
We  should  have  it  filled  with  beautiful  office  build- 
ings, thirty  stories  high,  fitted  up  with  marble  in- 
side, and  with  express  elevators  running  to  the  top 
floor.  The  Place  dee  la  Concorde  looks  very  dreary 


164  The  Great  Wet  Way 

to  me.  You  can  have  it,  and  you  can  give  me  Times 
Square  in  New  York.  They  are  lazy  people,  the 
French.  I'd  like  to  ask  you  where,  in  New  York, 
you  would  find  men  sitting  for  hours  at  cafes  in  the 
open  streets,  drinking  away  the  working  day?  " 

"They  are  only  drinking  coffee,"  I  piped  meekly. 

'*  They  are  an  indolent  set,"  she  declared,  getting 
angry,  "  and  you  know  it.  You  are  just  trying  to 
provoke  me.  If  I  found  a  husband  of  mine  sitting 
out  in  the  street,  and  looking  at  all  the  good-for- 
nothing  creatures  who  pass  by,  well — he  would  hear 
from  me." 

"  Your  husband,  I  suppose,  goes  into  a  bar-room 
and  takes  a  drink  of  whiskey?" 

"  Like  a  man !  "  she  cried  exultantly.  "  Yes,  he 
does,  and  I'm  proud  of  it.  He  goes  in  for  his  high- 
ball every  evening,  swallows  it  instantly,  standing 
up,  and  then  goes  about  his  business.  That  is  our 
way  of  doing  things,  and  it  is  the  only  way.  I've 
no  patience  with  the  French  people,  and  I  don't 
want  to  go  to  Parrus  again." 

"  I  love  Paris  " — maliciously. 

"  Then  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  admit  it.  You 
are  not  loyal.  If  I  loved  Parrus,  I  should  think 
myself  a  very  poor  sort  of  American " 

"  But  many  Americans  love  Paris,  and  live  there 
altogether." 

"Let  them !  "  she  asserted,  in  woman's  unanswer- 
able way.  "  They  can  have  it.  I  was  born  in  Syra- 


Patriotism 


1 65 


cuse,  and  I  tell  you  that  Syracuse  could  give  lessons 
to  Parrus  any  day  in  the  week.  Parrus  belongs  to 
the  past;  we  belong  to  the  future."  And  as  she 
went  away,  all  ruffled  up,  she  added,  "  And  I'm 
mighty  sorry  for  you" 

The  tinsel  patriot  always  has  a  duty  to  perform — 
to  himself.  He  is  anxious  to  maintain  his  self- 
respect  by  appreciating  emphatically  the  environ- 


1 66  The  Great  Wet  Way 

ment  that  has  made  him  what  he  thinks  he  is.  Some, 
times  you  see  this  brand  of  American  patriot  on 
board,  with  American  flags  all  over  him,  and  he 
takes  good  care  that  you  shall  notice  them.  He  is 
going  home.  He  had  saved  up  for  this  trip  for 
years,  and  has  spent  all  his  nice  cash  in  other  coun- 
tries. Therefore  the  very  least  that  he  can  do  for 
his  own  is  to  buy  a  few  flags  with  the  residue  of 
his  depleted  pocket-book,  and  wave  them.  He  is  very 
argumentative  and  fractious.  The  real  patriots  look 
at  him  in  wonder,  and  marvel  at  his  illogical  com- 
ments. They  run  away  from  him,  when  they  see 
him  approaching,  though  I  always  find  him  mosfc 
refreshing. 

"  London  is  a  great  one-horse  village,"  remarked 
a  patriot  recently,  settling  the  status  of  the  English 
metropolis  with  one  fell  swoop.  "  I  was  there  for 
a  month,  and  couldn't  get  a  glass  of  ice-water  in  my 
room  to  save  my  life!  They  don't  seem  to  know 
what  it  means.  Why,  in  the  United  States,  you  can 
get  it  anywhere,  and  it  is  looked  upon  as  one  of  the 
necessities  of  life.  They  are  'way  behind  the  times 
in  London,  with  its  rickety  old  busses  and  its  tiny 
trains.  Everything  is  little  over  there.  With  us, 
everything  is  big,  and  go-ahead,  and  significant." 

"  Was  it  your  first  visit  there?  "  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  replied  promptly.  "  I  go  over  every 
year,  but  not  because  I  like  London.  The  ocean 
trip  does  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  and  that  is  why 


Patriotism  167 

I  go  abroad.  If  I  wanted  to  have  a  good  time,  I 
should  stay  in  New  York.  New  York  is  good  enough 
for  me." 

That  is  one  of  the  stock  phrases — "  New  York 
is  good  enough  for  me."  It  is  like  a  creed.  Every- 
body says  it.  It  is  almost  catechismal.  You  find 
yourself  murmuring  it  unconsciously.  You  whistle 
it.  The  machinery  of  the  ship  seems  to  hum,  "  New 
York  is  good  enough  for  me."  You  repeat  it  to 
foreigners  on  board  who  have  not  yet  seen  New 
York;  therefore,  they  cannot  argue.  Not  that  any- 
body ever  attempts  to  argue  when  this  stock-phrase 
is  uttered.  It  admits  of  no  argument,  because  it  is 
so  personal.  "  New  York  is  good  enough  for  me  " 
does  not  insist  that  it  is  good  enough  for  you.  It 
merely  infers  itrH^hopes  it;  it  suggests  it;  it  threatens 
it.  You  may  be  plunged  in  a  heated  argument  in 
the  smokeroom,  and  think  that  you  are  getting  the 
better  of  it.  You  have  just  cornered  your  opponent; 
he  is  in  a  tight  place,  and  you  are  wondering  how 
he  is  going  to  squeeze  out  of  it,  when  he  says,  "  New 
York  is  good  enough  for  me." 

And  there  you  are.  That  ends  it.  Further  dis- 
cussion is  impossible.  Nobody  would  think  of  say- 
ing, "New  York  is  good  enough  for  you,  perhaps, 
but  kindly  explain  why."  That  would  be  ludicrous. 
You  would  be  regarded  as  a  lunatic.  When  any- 
one says  "  New  York  is  good  enough  for  me,"  just 
take  off  your  hat,  smile  sweetly,  and  run  away  and 


1 68  The  Great  Wet  Way 

play.  The  Italian  does  not  say,  "  Rome  is  good 
enough  for  me,"  or  the  Frenchman,  "  Paris  is  good 
enough  for  me,"  or  the  Englishman,  "  London  is 
good  enough  for  me."  It  would  sound  very  foolish, 
and  you  would  immediately  rush  in  with  fervid  argu- 
ments. You  never  argue  when  a  New  Yorker  says, 
"  New  York  is  good  enough  for  me."  The  remark 
is  sanctuary.  You  cannot  touch  him;  you  would  not 
dare.  He  is  safely  entrenched,  and  you  fume  for  a 
moment,  impotently,  and — er — discuss  the  weather. 

Once  I  met  a  very  pretty  American  girl  who  had 
made  a  tour  through  Italy.  She  had  stayed  for  sev- 
eral days  in  such  towns  as  Verona,  Padua,  Ravenna, 
Bologna,  and  Pisa. 

"  I  was  so  amused,"  she  said  vivaciously.  "  Mom- 
mer  and  I  used  to  wander  through  the  streets,  and 
we  laughed  to  kill  ourselves.  Honestly,  it  was  the 
funniest  experience  I  have  ever  had." 

"  I  suppose  the  old  buildings,  the  historical  asso- 
ciations, and  the  quaint  customs  of  the  people 
amused  you?"  I  suggested. 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  replied.  "  It  was  the  cut  of  the 
shirt-waists  we  saw  in  the  shop-windows.  You 
would  have  died!  Such  things!  How  any  civilised 
people  could  even  think  such  jokes,  mommer  and  I 
couldn't  imagine.  We  had  thought  of  taking  home 
a  little  present  to  a  girl  friend  of  mine  in  Boston, 
and  I  said  to  mommer  that  my  friend  would  just 
love  a  pretty  shirt-waist  from  Verona  or  Padua,  or 


The  tinsel  patriot" 


Patriotism  169 

one  of  those  old  Italian  towns.  But  she  would  have 
been  insulted  if  we  had  bought  her  such  stuff  as 
we  saw.  I  was  surprised.  I  had  heard  so  much  of 
Italy.  Everybody  advised  us  to  go  there.  It  is  a 
jay  country." 

"It  is  quite  old,"  I  murmured. 

"Of  course  I  know  that,"  she  said  impetuously. 
"  But  how  these  old  countries  can  be  satisfied  to 
stick  in  the  mud,  I  can't  for  the  life  of  me  under- 
stand. A  trip  across  the  ocean,  which  is  nothing 
nowadays,  would  show  them  what  we  are  doing, 
and  teach  them  how  to  live  like  human  beings.  It 
must  be  dreadful  in  Italy  when  all  the  Americans 
have  gone  home.  I  should  hate  it.  In  the  Spring 
you  do  meet  a  few  Americans  at  the  Vatican  and 
at  St.  Peter's  in  Rome.  They  liven  things  up,  and 
make  it  seem  a  bit  more  home-like.  I'm  glad  I  have 
been,  because  I  shall  not  have  to  go  again.  I  would 
sooner  spend  a  day  in  Washington  than  a  year  in 
Rome." 

"Didn't  your  mother  like  it?" 

"  Oh,  mommer  was  just  miserable,"  she  declared. 
"  She  missed  her  tea  dreadfully,  and  all  the  com- 
forts we  have  at  home.  Mommer's  getting  on, 
you  know.  It  was  like  asking  her  to  go  backwards, 
to  rough  it,  and  to  put  up  with  every  inconvenience. 
We  had  a  much  better  time  last  year  at  Atlantic 
City.  There  is  always  something  to  see  there — 
always  new  faces,  and  pretty  gowns,  and  jolly  people 


170  The  Great  Wet  Way 

who  are  living,  and  not  existing.  That  is  what  we 
like." 

I  was  just  going  to  make  a  few  pungent  remarks, 
and  see  how  this  cunning  little  patriot  took  them, 
when  she  suddenly  said,  "  New  York  is  good  enough 
for  me."  That  put  the  brake  on. 

These  must  be  extremely  exaggerated  cases  of 
tinsel  patriotism,  you  may  say.  Not  at  all.  They 
may  seem  exaggerated,  and  that  is  why  I  set  them 
forth  in  their  unvarnished  beauty,  but  they  are  very 
usual.  They  are  quite  peculiar  to  the  ocean  steam- 
ship. As  soon  as  he  is  landed  the  exuberance  of 
the  tinsel  patriot  evaporates  to  a  certain  extent.  He 
is  back  again  in  the  land  that  gave  him  birth.  That 
is  quite  enough  for  the  land.  The  land  has  got 
him  again,  and  should  be  satisfied.  It  is  no  longer 
necessary  to  throw  any  more  bouquets. 

Sometimes  you  meet  a  tinsel  patriot  who  seems 
to  be  looking  for  a  fight.  He  is  just  aching  to  in- 
flict his  views  upon  somebody.  He  dominates  the 
ship,  and  declares  that  this  is  the  happiest  moment 
of  his  life.  He  has  been  abroad  for  a  long  time,  and 
wants  to  meet  real  men,  and  real  women,  and  to  see 
real  life.  He  does  not  say  this  with  any  intonation 
of  genuine  longing,  but  with  a  sort  of  "  I-dare-you- 
to-put-in-a-word "  inflection.  He  is  superbly  con- 
temptuous of  every  country  he  has  visited.  He  went 
abroad  just  to  please  his  wife.  Women  get  such 
insane  notions  in  their  heads.  Women  are  never 


Patriotism 


171 


satisfied  to  stay  at  home.  The  European  bee  is 
always  buzzing  in  their  bonnets.  The  old  Adam 
lurks  in  this  gentleman,  for  the  woman  tempted  him, 
and  he  did  eat. 

This  patriot  always  poses  as  a  "  good  fellow."  In 
the  smokeroom  he  is  very  loud  and  demonstrative, 
but — a  "good  fellow."  On  deck  he  buttonholes 
you,  and  tells  you  "  hard-luck  "  stories  of  how  they 


tried  to  "  do "  him  in  foreign  cities,  but  how  he 
always  won  out.  He  asserted  himself  wherever  he 
was,  he  says.  No  matter  if  the  over-charge  amounted 
to  five  cents,  he  refused  to  pay  it.  In  Europe  the 


172  The  Great  Wet  Way 

American  was  regarded  as  lawful  prey.  It  was  his 
delight  to  rectify  this  error. 

"  In  Amsterdam,"  he  told  me  once,  "  I  had  the 
entire  hotel  aroused.  The  cabby  who  brought  me 
from  the  station  wanted  to  charge  me  three  florins. 
Now  I  knew  that  the  exact  fare  was  two  florins  and  a 
half.  The  fellow  followed  me  into  the  lobby.  I  had 
the  proprietor  of  the  hotel,  the  clerk,  the  treasurer, 
and  twenty  guests  around  me.  I  was  determined 
not  to  give  in,  just  because  I  couldn't  speak  Dutch. 
I'm  not  a  mean  man,  but  I  hate  to  be  '  done ' — by 
foreigners.  And  I  won.  I  paid  him  two  florins  and 
a  half,  and  he  went  away." 

"  In  New  York  you  would  probably  have  paid 
five  dollars,"  I  said — like  a  fool,  I  admit. 

"But  Amsterdam  isn't  New  York,"  he  thun- 
dered indignantly.  "  A  little  pesky  dirt  hole  like 
Amsterdam  couldn't  begin  to  be  New  York.  I'm  a 
good  American,  I  am,  and  I  want  to  show  these 
people  what  we  are  made  of.  This  cabby  intended 
to  overcharge  me  twenty  cents  I  Do  you  understand 
— twenty  cents  ?  Well,  I  guess  not.  Oh,  I  don't  say 
that  cabs  are  not  cheap  in  Amsterdam,  if  we  com- 
pare them  with  our  own.  But  why  should  we  ?  Why 
should  we  be  robbed?  And  we  *re  robbed  every- 
where. That  is  what  I  complain  of  all  over  Europe. 
Wherever  you  go  you  are  robbed,  unless  you  are 
out  on  the  war-path.  Talk  of  honesty — they  don't 
know  what  it  means." 


Patriotism  173 

He  was  happy.  He  had  been  looking  for  this, 
and  he  was  not  going  to  relinquish  it  because  we 
all  moved  away  in  affright.  He  followed  us  up. 
He  told  us  how  they  had  tried  to  rob  him  in  Dresden 
and  Leipzig  and  Hanover;  his  awful  experiences  in 
Switzerland;  some  happenings  in  Italy  that  were 
nearly  tragedies,  and  some  events  in  France  that  tes- 
tified to  French  rapacity.  He  treated  us  to  new 
stories  every  day,  and  we  began  to  long  for  a  sight 
of  the  wretches  who  had  tried  to  "  do "  him.  I 
learned  subsequently,  from  the  newspapers,  that  he 
was  a  bank-president,  who  was  investigated  rather 
sensationally  during  the  recent  panic. 

Yet  an  ocean  trip  would  be  tedious  without  the 
tinsel  patriot — bless  his  heart !  He  is  generally  very 
harmless,  though  noisy.  He  is  usually  kind,  and 
he  is  very  good  to  his  mother.  He  means  well. 
There  is  no  real  malice  in  this  abuse  of  the  countries 
in  which  he  was  not  born.  He  just  wants  to  show 
those  countries  what  they  missed,  and — that  is  par- 
donable. After  all,  if  you  want  to  make  a  man  feel 
pleased  with  himself,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  praise 
his  country.  That  is  catering  to  his  conceit.  On 
board  ship  he  does  it  for  himself.  There  was  one 
very  popular  actress  who  used  to  enlist  the  sympathy 
of  the  reporters  in  every  town  she  visited  by  telling 
them  that  if  she  had  been  able  to  choose  her  birth- 
place, she  would  have  selected  their  town.  The 
number  of  cities  in  which  she  would  like  to  have 


174  The  Great  Wet  Way 

been  born  was  appalling.  This  is  just  an  opposite 
view  of  the  tinsel  patriot  on  the  ocean  steamship. 

On  the  transatlantic  liner  tinsel  patriotism  runs 
rife.  If  you  had  been  born  in  a  stable,  you  would 
be  a  horse,  and  would  neigh  your  equine  delight 
to  all  your  fellow-passengers.  You  would  say  tri- 
umphantly, "  A  stable  is  good  enough  for  me,"  and 
you  would  be  quite  sure  that  it  was,  and  very  thank- 
ful that  no  kennel  had  been  your  birth-place. 

Yet  at  home  you  are  not  so  touchy.  There  are 
even  times  when  you  are  rather  vexed  that  you  were 
born  at  all.  It  seems  so  unnecessary. 


IX 

TIPPING 

TIP,  according  to 
my  dictionary,  is  "  a 
sum  of  money  giv- 
en, as  to  a  servant, 
usually  to  secure 
better  or  more 
prompt  service."  A 
tip,  according  to 
my  experience,  is  "  a 
sum  of  money,  giv- 
en, as  to  an  adver- 
sary, usually  to  se- 
cure any  kind  of 
service  at  all."  The 
literature  of  tipping  is  generally  confined  to  the  news- 
papers, and  occurs  in  the  shape  of  letters  to  the 
editor,  signed  "  Free  American,"  "  Democratic 
Reader,"  and  other  things  equally  untrammelled  and 
pleasing. 

Whenever  you  get  a  chance  to  read  such  letters — 
read,  and  digest  them.  Read  them  thoroughly.  Con- 
vince yourself  of  the  sheer  immorality  and  the  utter 
degradation  of  the  tip.  Learn  that  tipping  is  but 

175 


1 76  The  Great  Wet  Way 

bribery  in  a  modified  form,  leading  nevertheless 
along  the  sinister  thoroughfare  that  abuts  on  cor- 
ruption. Appreciate  the  sublime  and  self-sacrific- 
ing sentiments  of  those  sticklers  for  righteousness 
who  refuse  to  pander  to  a  proceeding  that  must  end 
in  the  humiliation  of  the  working  classes.  Listen  to 
the  eloquent  words  of  the  anti-tippers,  emancipated 
and  glorious,  who,  at  great  personal  discomfort, 
have  shaken  themselves  free  from  the  chains  of 
ugly,  enthralling,  and  unnecessary  slavery. 

Then  when  you  have  completely  assimilated  all 
these  ideas,  and  have  endorsed  their  accuracy  and 
their  integrity,  make  up  your  mind  not  to  go  to 
Europe  via  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  As  there  is  no  other 
way  of  getting  there  as  yet  open  to  the  public,  regis- 
ter your  determination  not  to  go  until  there  is.  It 
may  be  for  ye-ears,  and  it  may  be  for  e-ever  I 

If,  however,  stern  necessity,  or  sterner  pleasure 
call  you  abroad,  and  the  call  will  not  be  gainsaid, 
you  must  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain.  You 
must  be  degraded;  you  must  be  humiliated;  you 
must  pander  to  an  ignoble  sentiment;  you  must  listen 
to  the  clanking  of  those  chains  of  ugly  and  unneces- 
sary slavery.  You  must  tip.  Relinquish  the  anti- 
tippers  to  their  noble  yet  resultless  fight.  Trusting 
that  it  will  find  them,  as  it  leaves  you,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  perfect  health  of  the  season,  and  with 
kind  regards  to  their  family,  in  which  yours  joins, 
remain  theirs  truly.  And  let  it  go  at  that. 


Tipping 


177 


There  is  nothing  that  I  enjoy  so  thoroughly  as 
a  dispassionate  observation  of  the  various  brands  of 
ocean-traveller,  in  this  conflict  with  the  ever-flour- 
ishing institution  of  tipping.  My  study  has  been 
so  careful  and  so  prolonged  and  so  kaleidoscopic, 
that  I  could  positively  tell  the  stewards  the  precise 
amount  that  their  various  victims  will  contribute 
to  their  welfare.  Strangely  enough,  the  stewards 


178  The  Great  Wet  Way 

themselves  never  know,  and  make  the  most  protesque 
mistakes  in  their  calculations.  They  are  obse- 
quiously polite  to  the  people  who  will  tip  them  with 
a  bright  smile  and  some  cheap  advice;  they  are 
"  off-hand  "  and  brusque  to  the  passengers  who  will 
hand  them  gold  and  ask  no  thanks.  Stewards  "  see  " 
tips  in  unlikely  places.  They  are  ingenuous  crea- 
tures. There  are  no  tipping  schools,  where  servants 
can  acquire  the  knack  of  artistic  expectation,  and 
where  they  can  learn  to  fathom  the  mysteries  of  the 
unseen  pocket-book.  Stewards  should  be  mind-read- 
ers and  purse-readers.  They  are  neither.  Some 
philanthropist  —  some  floating  Carnegie  —  should 
organise  a  school  where  stewards  might  learn  how 
to  guide  their  faith  in  the  right  direction.  In  the 
art  of  materialising  tips,  as  in  every  other  art,  there 
is  a  right  and  there  is  a  wrong 
direction. 

Let  me  furnish  a  few  instances 
of  the  stewards'  irrelevancy. 

You  see  that  elegantly  gowned 
lady  who  has  just  come  on  board 
at  Southampton.  She  is  very  impor- 
tant, very  fussy,  and  fearfully  dig- 
//  I  lj      \     nified.     She    carries    a    mysterious- 
f  I    f         \    looking  box,  from  which  the  savour 
it  »    of  priceless  jewels  appears  to  em- 

anate.   The  bag  may  contain  noth- 
ing more  than  her  curls  and  her 


Tipping  179 

make-up.  Jewels,  however,  seem  probable.  She  is 
careful  to  announce  that  she  is  travelling  without 
a  maid.  Her  maid  was  taken  ill  in  London  at  the 
last  moment.  Maids  are  so  thoughtless!  They  al- 
ways "  get  things "  at  inopportune  times.  She  is 
deeply  chagrined.  What  can  she  do  without  a  maid? 
This  will  be  the  first  time  that  she  has  ever  budged 
without  one.  Tears  well  up  in  her  eyes. 

The  stewardess  swallows  the  bait  unhesitatingly. 
She  rises  to  the  occasion.  She  is  all  sympathy  and 
all  solicitude.  She  comforts  the  poor  maid-less  trav- 
eller. Madame  will  permit  her  to  do  all  she  can — 
and  it  is  much — to  contribute  to  her  creature-com- 
fort. She  will  brush  Madame's  hair,  and  massage 
Madame's  face,  and  tuck  Madame  up  in  her  bed. 
Madame  thanks  her  in  a  forlorn  way.  She  will  en- 
deavour to  make  shift  with  the  stewardess'  services. 

And  she  endeavours,  most  successfully.  She  ac- 
cepts them,  and  she  monopolises  them.  The  ex- 
pectant and  delighted  stewardess  waits  on  her  hand 
and  foot,  neglecting  many  whom,  by  comparison,  she 
regards  as  "  small  fry."  Madame  gets  attention  in 
gusts,  and  seems  to  regard  it  as  her  due.  The  stew- 
ardess, feeling  that  she  has  a  "  soft  snap,"  thinks  that 
she  can  afford  to  be  haughty  and  apathetic  with  her 
other  charges.  And  she  is  haughty  and  apathetic. 
Madame  is  her  hope,  her  joy,  and — things  much 
more  nutritious. 

The  lady  goes  ashore  in  due  course.    She  thanks 


i8o 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


the  stewardess  very  prettily  for  her  many  atten- 
tions. She  hopes  to  "  cross  "  with  her  again,  and 
intends  to  make  a  point  of  asking  for  her.  In  fact, 
she  will  mention  her  name  to  one  of  the  members 
of  the  company  who  is  a  particular  friend.  She 

hands  her  a  coin — of  about 
one-eighth  the  value  that  the 

£^ii^  ^w^X  obsequious  hireling  had 
fondly  anticipated,  and  flits 
away.  Oh,  one  thing  more. 
She  has  left  one  or  two 
things  in  her  stateroom 
that  the  stewardess  may 
keep.  These  things  are  per- 
haps a  rag  of  a  kimono,  a  tattered  skirt,  and  a  dis- 
mantled corset. 

The  stewardess  is  broken-hearted.  Another  dream 
vanished !  The  neglected  patrons,  indignant  at  their 
treatment,  forget  her.  Her  trip  has  been  fruitless. 
This  is  an  incident  that  never  varies.  It  is  also  one 
of  the  few  cases  in  which  experience  fails  to  teach. 
On  one  occasion  I  sat  at  table  with  a  lady  and 
her  four  boys — four  fat,  hungry,  lusty  youths  of 
immature  age.  I  knew  her  brand  very  well,  but  not 
so  the  steward.  He  reasoned  in  this  way:  Here 
is  a  woman  travelling  un-husbanded,  with  four  trou- 
blesome sons.  She  will  be  intensely  grateful  for  any 
extra  attention.  It  will  help  her  out  of  many  diffi- 
culties. She  is  the  tip  of  the  voyage. 


Tipping 


181 


The  poor  chap  immediately  took  possession  of 
that  transatlantic  mother,  and  I  watched  his  tactics 
with  keen  amusement.  The  four  boys  had  the  appe- 
tites of  at  least  eight.  They  ordered  three  or  four 
dishes  at  a  time.  They  kept  that  steward  running 
to  and  fro.  The  rest  of  us  counted  for  little.  We 
were  just  pimples.  When  he  had  a  moment  to  spare 
he  deigned  to  take  our 
order,  though  he  seemed 
vexed  that  we  should 
have  the  temerity  to 
want  anything.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  that  we 
might  need  nourishment. 
The  m  o  t  h  e  r-and-four 
were  the  hopes  upon 
which  he  built  a  stout  edifice  of  tip.  They  ate  like 
barbarians.  They  took  bacon  with  marmalade,  and 
tomatoes  with  sugar,  and  pie  with  meat.  Anybody 
but  a  steward  would  have  known  immediately  that 
such  savages  would  not  understand  the  gentle  art 
of  tipping.  Tipping  is,  after  all,  a  growth  of  civil- 
isation— perhaps  a  wart  thereon.  Primitive  people 
will  never  tip. 

And  it  happened  as  I  knew  it  would  happen.  At 
that  fateful  last  meal,  when  the  tipper  comes  to  the 
surface,  and  the  tippee  watches  him  with  perfervid 
eyes,  the  matron-and-four  saw  us  all  in  the  tip-throe. 
As  she  left  the  table,  she  took  from  her  pocket  a 


l82 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


few  pieces  of  silver,  and  with  a  sweet  and  winsome 
smile,  she  said  to  the  eager  one :     "  This  is  all  I 
have  left  of  English  money.    I  cannot  use  it,  but  I 
am  sure  you  can."    It  was  about  eighty  cents! 
The  expression  on  that  steward's  face  absolutely 

defied  description.  It 
mingled  scorn  with 
bitter  disappoint- 
ment, rage,  disgust, 
sorrow,  anxiety,  and 
* — best  of  all — re- 
morse. The  remorse 
was  what  interested 
me,  for  we  were 
avenged. 

The  steward  on 
an  ocean  steamer 
judges  by  appear- 
ances.  The  flashy  passenger,  with  the  loud  voice 
and  the  diamond  headlight,  who  invariably  dons 
evening  dress  (and  sometimes  accompanies  it  with 
tan  shoes)  looks  good  to  him — much  better  than  the 
silent,  unobtrusive  little  chap  who  seems  half  afraid 
of  giving  trouble,  and  is  always  polite.  It  is  the 
former  who  always  secures  the  steward's  most  lavish 
endeavours ;  it  is  the  latter  who  is  persistently  slighted. 
And  the  tip  emanates  from  the  latter;  rarely  from 
the  former.  The  former  is  a  brow-beater,  and  not 
inclined  to  pay  for  what  he  considers  his  due.  He 


Tipping  183 

throws  a  coin  at  his  servitor 
before  leaving  the  ship,  and 
it  is  usually  less  than  the 
amount  prescribed  by  alleged 
tipping  authorities. 

People  from  the  wild  and 
woolly  west  are  exceedingly 
droll.  It  is  as  good  as  a 
farce  to  study  them.  They 
frequently  ask  for  information  on  the  malignant 
subject  of  tips.  They  have  heard  people  on  board 
talking  about  it.  Is  it  the  correct  thing  to  give 
the  stewards  anything?  If  so,  why  is  there  no  fixed 
tariff?  And  how  is  it  that  the  steamship  companies 
do  not  include  service  in  their  expensive  fares?  And 
is  it  not  an  outrage  to  pay  other  people's  servants? 
And  so  on.  How  much  must  they  give  it?  Why 
not  hand  it  to  the  purser,  and  let  him  make  the  dis- 
tribution? 

Contrary  to  what  many  people  think,  it 
is  not  overtipping  that  has  ruined  the  quality 
of  stewardship;  it  is  undertipping.  That  the 
quality  has  been  ruined  is  beyond  question.  Kind 
old  ladies  from  "  prohibition  "  states,  who  tip  with 
a  temperance  tract  and  a  blessing;  free  and 
enlightened  cranks,  who  decline  to  degrade  the 
working-classes  by  meaningless  gratuities;  the 
extraordinary  people  who  democratically  re- 
gard the  stewards  as  "  equal,"  call  them 


by  their  Christian  names, 
and  tell  them  their  family 
histories ;  arrogant  upstarts, 
who  refuse  to  be  made  a 
party  to  "  blood-sucking," 
the  hopelessly  ignorant,  who 
know  no  better — these  are 
the  people  who  give  the  poor 
steward  his  pangs — pangs 
for  which  willing  tippers  are 
forced  to  pay. 

So  it  happens  that  very 
often  the  suffering  steward 
cares  for  nobody,  no,  not  he,  'cos  nobody  cares  for 
him  I  He  is  surly  indifference  until  the  last  day, 
when  be  becomes  sinister  attention.  For,  after  all, 
thinks  he,  it  is  the  last  day — and  not  the  first  step — • 
that  counts!  He  leaves  you  severely  alone  during 
six  full  and  beautiful  days,  and  on  the  seventh — 
he  brings  tea  to  your  room,  brushes  your  clothes  for 
you,  smooths  out  your  wrinkles,  and  tells  you  that 
it  is  going  to  be  lovely  weather.  He  has  never  both- 
ered about  the  weather  before,  even  though  it  may 
have  played  all  sorts  of  pranks  with  your  peace  of 
mind.  In  fact,  this  is  apparently  the  first  time  he 
has  ever  noticed  weather.  You  do  not  feel  as  grate- 
ful to  him  as  you  would  have  done  if  he  had  buoyed 
you  up  with  affectionate  remarks  about  the  weather 
on — say,  the  second  day  out. 


Tipping  185 

Poor  old  chap!  I  am  always  sorry  for  the  stew- 
ard. He  has  a  dog's  life.  He  is  usually  a  very 
decent,  hard-working,  kindly-hearted  fellow,  but  he 
expects  his  tip,  which  should  be  made  compulsory, 
is  so  easily  gulled  by  blatant  behaviour.  His  life 
is  a  series  of  disillusions.  He  is  never  a  student  of 
human  nature.  That  which  glitters  is  to  him  in- 
variably gold. 

But  I  cannot  love  the  "last  day"  steward, 
however  much  I  may  try.  I  cannot  feel  a  deep- 
rooted  affection  for  the  menial  who  says  most 
emphatically  "  Good-morning "  to  me  on  the  sev- 
enth day,  and  who,  on  the  preceding  days,  has  taken 
pains  not  to  see  me  as  I  passed  by.  He  is  actuated 
by  human  motives — I  know  that — but  there  are 
some  human  motives  that  are  less  desirable  than 
others. 

Sometimes  I  feel  impelled  to  help  the  poor  stew- 
ard. I  see  him  tucking  ug  some  fair  dame  in  her 
steamer-chair,  ply- 
ing her  with  sweet 

attentions,      arrang-          „_  _ 

ing     her     cushions,  IHw     _ 

and  bombarding  her 
with  zealous 
thought,  when  I 
know  too  well  that 
she  will  never  "  ma- 
terialise." It  is 


1 86 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


written  all  over  her  face,  in  handwriting  that  is 
unmistakable  to  me.  But  she  wears  diamonds,  and 
expensive  furs,  and  is  "made-up"  for  the  morning 
deck,  and  the  will  o'  the  wisp  lures  him  to  his  de- 
struction. Far — far  better,  if  he  were  to  devote 
himself  to  that  poor  little  nobody,  sitting  alone  at 
the  other  end  of  the  deck,  and  apparently  pining 
for  a  whiff  of  attention.  But  she  wears  no  jewels; 
her  hair  is  rammed  into  a  cheap  "tarn  o'  shanter," 
and  she  exudes  no  flavour  of  prosperity.  I  long 
to  tell  him  that  she  will  "tip" — that  her  tip  will 
be  the  outward  manifestation  of  gratitude.  It  is 
gratitude  that  is  the  surest  tip-extracter. 

Seriously,  the  last  day  on  board — the  tipping  day 
— is  a  trying  occasion.     You  feel  oppressed  by  a 

large  variety  of  conflicting 
emotions.  Somehow  or 
other,  your  sense  of  hu- 
Imour  dries  up,  and  you 
find  yourself  humour-less, 
unable  to  see  fun  in  any- 
thing. You  are  confronted 
by  the  difficult  problem  of 
doing  the  right  thing  in  the 
right  way.  You  want  to  go 
ashore  with  the  memory  of 
smiling  faces  wishing  you 
good  luck.  And  what  is 
the  price  of  a  smiling 


Tipping 


187 


face?     Is  there  any  reduction  if  you  buy  smiling 
faces  wholesale? 

There  is  no  standard  for  the  tip.  It  is  left  hope- 
lessly to  your — er — indiscretion.  The  man  who  over- 
tips  is  a  fool;  the  man  who  under-tips  is  a  knave. 
,You  are  not  anxious  to  be  either.  Some  people 
would  rather  be  a  knave  than  a  fool.  I  cannot  see 
that  one  is  comelier  than  the  other.  Strange  menials 
appear,  and  smile  at  you — menials  you  have  scarcely 


seen.  They  come  from  the  bowels  of  the  ship ;  many 
of  them  appear  to  have  dropped  from  the  sky.  The 
boy  who  blows  the  bugle  for  dinner  suddenly  seems 
to  have  conceived  a  violent  fancy  for  you.  A  sooty- 
faced  individual  introduces  himself  to  you  as  "  the 
boots  "  :  a  suave  sailor  announces  that  it  was  he  who 


1 88  The  Great  Wet  Way 

chalked  the  deck  for  shuffleboard.  A  lad  who  ran 
errands  for  the  officers  looks  at  you  hopefully.  Oh, 
you  do  want  them  to  remember  you  pleasantly !  But 
unless  you  happen  to  be  a  millionaire,  or  an  anti- 
tipper  on  principle,  you  grow  befuddled.  You  see 
the  distant  shore,  and  you  wish  you  were  there. 
There  is  nobody  to  help  you;  nobody  to  give  you  a 
hint.  Each  passenger  tips,  or  doesn't  tip,  according 
to  his  conception  of  the  role.  It  is  a  dreadful  mo- 
ment for  the  ultra-sensitive.  It  is  even  a  cruel  mo- 
ment. As  for  that  bugbear,  the  right  thing — what 
is  right  for  you  is  wrong  for  your  neighbour,  and 
what  is  wrong  for  you  is  right  for  your  neighbour. 
It  is  bewildering.  It  is  an  inextricable  labyrinth. 

It  is  as  bad  as  the  predicament  in  which  the  Lon- 
don cabby  places  you.  With  the  London  cabby  you 
are  as  much  at  sea  as  you  are  on  any  ship.  To 
underpay  him  is  to  be  cursed;  to  give  him  his 
exact  fare  is  to  be  near-cursed ;  to  over-pay  him  is  to 
get  a  "  Thank  you "  and  a  smile.  You  hate  to 
adopt  similar  tactics  on  board  ship,  but  the  cabby's 
tip  is  a  very  near  relative  to  the  steward's  gratuity. 
Nor  can  you  settle  either  by  any  fixed  rules,  as  I 
tried  to  do  with  a  cabby  on  one  occasion — and  only 
one  I 

It  was  the  result  of  various  sickening  experiences 
with  London  cabby.  I  had  been  "  done  brown  "  so 
many  times  that  my  friends  had  laughed  at  my 
weakness  most  provokingly.  Therefore,  I  made  up 


Tipping  189 

my  mind  firmly  to  be  strong  and  non-vacillating.  A 
Londoner  laid  me  down  what  he  called  an  unvarying 
rule.  "Take  out  your  watch,  old  chap,"  he  said, 
"  and  while  you  are  in  the  hansom,  hold  it  in  your 
hand.  Look  at  it  carefully,  and  note  the  number  of 
minutes  the  trip  takes.  Then,  reckon  at  the  rate 
of  a  penny  per  minute.  If  it  be  under  twelve  min- 
utes, you  cannot  of  course  give  the  cabby  less  than 
a  shilling,  plus  his  tip.  Anything  over  twelve  min- 
utes, pay  at  the  rate  of  a  penny  a  minute,  and  give 
him  fourpence  for  himself.  He'll  thank  you.  He'll 
take  off  his  hat  to  you." 

How  grateful  I  was  for  this !  I  had  lovely  visions 
of  a  bottle-nosed  cab-driver  doffing  his  hat  and  mak- 
ing affable  remarks  about  the  weather.  These 
visions  were  delicious  to  me.  The  realities  had  been 
so  sad,  and  so  costly. 

That  afternoon  I  visited  a  theatre  outside  the 
London  radius,  and  took  a  hansom — this  time,  with- 
out any  misgivings,  for  I  felt  that  I  at  last  owned 
the  key  to  the  situation.  Usually  I  am  full  of 
gloomy  forebodings  in  a  hansom  cab;  this  time  I 
was  light-hearted  and  joyous.  Out  came  my  watch, 
and  it  was  my  pleasure  to  note  the  minutes  as  they 
flitted  by.  It  is  wonderful  what  a  quantity  of  ground 
can  be  covered  in  one  minute  by  a  fleet  hansom  cab. 
We  reached  the  outlying  theatre  in  exactly  eleven 
minutes  by  my  veracious  time-piece.  Eleven  min- 
utes! That  would  mean,  according  to  my  friend's 


190  The  Great  Wet  Way 

regulations,  that  if  I  gave  the  cabby  one-and-four- 
pence — a  shilling  for  his  fare  and  fourpence  for 
his  tip — he  would  thank  me,  and  then  take  off  his 
hat. 

The  old  habit  of  handing  cabby  a  tentative  sum, 
and  then  shutting  my  eyes  and  hoping  for  the  best, 
was  about  to  assert  itself.  I  straightened  myself  up, 
however,  rushed  into  the  breach,  and  handed  my 
pilot  one-and-fourpence,  with  a  bright  yet  dignified 
smile.  Then  I  waited  to  see  him  doff  his  hat,  and 
murmur  "  Thank  you." 

The  cabby,  at  first,  seemed  paralysed.  Then  he 
grew  apoplectic.  His  eyes  appeared  to  bulge  from 
his  head.  He  jumped  from  his  perch,  and  let  loose 
a  torrent  of  alleged  language  that  would  dry  up  any 
ink.  I  was  surprised,  of  course,  but  firm.  Let  him 
enjoy  himself.  I  had  done  the  correct  thing,  and  I 
fully  proposed  to  stand  by  it.  Naturally  I  felt  a 
bit  disappointed,  for  I  did  want  to  see  him  doff  his 
cap,  and  he  looked  as  though  he  were  going  to 
doff  mine!  No  matter.  I  walked  gracefully  away, 
and  entered  the  lobby  of  the  theatre,  which  was  filled 
with  a  matinee  crowd  of  men  and  women. 

By  my  side  was — cabby !  He  was  asking  in  stento- 
rian tones  if  I  thought  I  was  a  gentleman,  and  what  I 
meant  by  refusing  to  pay  my  fare.  He  would  call 
the  police — he  would  call  every  policeman  in  Lon- 
don— before  he  would  be  swindled.  The  theatre- 
lobby  seemed  to  echo  his  words.  The  crowd  of  ex- 


Tipping  191 

pectant  theatre-goers  grew  interested — intensely  in- 
terested it  seemed  to  me.  They  stopped  in  their 
purchase  of  theatre-tickets,  for  here  was  a  free  show. 
They  formed  a  ring  around  us.  I  grew  paler;  the 
cabby  grew  redder.  It  was  a  ghastly  predicament. 
Even  if  I  had  right  on  my  side — and  I  began  to 
doubt  it — what  was  the  use  of  it?  My  resolutions 
crumbled;  my  firm  determination  evaporated.  I 
caved  in!  I  asked  him  in  wavering,  cringing  tones 
how  much  he  wanted,  and  was  prepared  to  yield  up 
my  little  all.  He  wanted  exactly  three  times  the 
amount  I  had  given  him,  and  he  got  it.  That,  he 
said,  was  the  precise  fare  without  a  tip. 

I  was  really  quite  grateful  to  him  for  accepting 
it.  I  might  just  as  well  have  spared  myself  this 
scene,  and  have  done  what  everybody  else  does.  But 
somehow  or  other  one  hates  to  be  green-horned.  One 
prefers  to  be  liberal  in  one's  own  way  instead  of 
being  clubbed  into  a  cabby's  idea  of  liberality.  This 
was  an  odious  experience.  I  firmly  believe  that  the 
cabby  would  have  bought  a  seat  for  the  play,  and 
have  sat  through  the  piece,  muttering  sotto-voce 
imprecations  in  my  ear,  if  I  had  declined  to  suc- 
cumb. He  went  away,  well-pleased  and  smiling. 
That  also  riled  me.  I  felt  that  he  had  paid  him- 
self for  his  "  anxiety  of  mood." 

Well,  the  taxi-cab  has  reduced  all  these  griev- 
ances to  a  minimum.  Thank  a  progressive  age, 
and  a  peace-loving  age,  for  the  taxi-cab. 


192  The  Great  Wet  Way 

On  board  ship,  however,  there  are  as  yet  no  taxi- 
stewards.  There  probably  will  be.  I  should  like  to 
see  some  sort  of  arrangement  by  which  the  steward 
is  equipped  with  a  disc  on  his  shirt-front  that  regis- 
ters the  exact  amount  of  attention  he  gives  to  each 
of  his  patrons.  Why  not?  This  would  furnish  you 
some  faint  inkling  of  the  correct  thing  to  do,  and  to 
show  extra  appreciation  you  could  multiply  it  or 
add  to  it.  At  any  rate,  it  would  supply  a  standard. 
The  taxi-steward  would  be  one  of  the  greatest  of  all 
modern  improvements  on  board  ship.  A  fig  for  the 
stateroom  telephone!  A  fig  for  the  electric  hair- 
curler!  A  box  of  figs  for  the  whole  set  of  labour- 
saving  appliances!  What  we  need  is  the  taxi- 
steward,  registering  his  indebtedness,  and  making 
that  fateful  last  day  less  terrifying  and  anxious. 

Some  people  who  would  like  to  be  anti-tippers, 
but  lack  the  necessary  grit,  and  whose  gratuities  are 
imperceptible  to  the  naked  eye,  say  reassuringly: 
"  What  does  it  matter  ?  We  shall  never  see  them 
again."  What  a  mistake!  These  half-tipped  men- 
ials will  haunt  their  lives.  They  will  occur  at  the 
most  inopportune  moments.  They  will  be  on  some 
other  ship.  They  will  be  found  in  hotels.  They 
will  be  recognised  as  butlers  in  friends'  houses.  They 
will  sneer  and  jibe.  They  will  spread  slanderous  re- 
ports. They  will  upset  one's  dignity,  one's  poise. 
They  will  nourish  a  fearful  revenge.  There  will  be 
no  escape  from  them. 


Tipping  193 

"  We  shall  never  see  them  again."  Oh  yes,  you 
will,  and  they  will  see  you  first.  They  will  cast  a 
shadow  on  your  happiness.  They  will  loom  up  as 
your  past !  Like  the  hero  in  the  play,  you  will  sprout 
a  past,  and  it  will  hurl  itself  at  you  when  you  least 
expect  it.  Go  easily,  ye  optimists,  who  murmur: 
"  We  shall  never  see  them  again."  Never  is  a  long 
time. 

To  some,  tipping  seems  easy,  and  even  luxurious. 
It  is  neither.  It  is  graft  on  a  small  scale,  but  the 
problem  of  graft  is  a  very  complicated  one,  because 
it  is  so  tacit.  All  regulated  expenditure  is  simple. 
It  is  the  unregulated  expenditure  that  abounds  in 
difficulties.  The  steamship  companies  sometimes 
print  announcements  to  the  effect  that  servants  are 
not  permitted  to  ask  for  gratuities.  They  think 
that  kind.  I  call  it  malevolent.  I  should  like  my 
stewards  to  come  to  me  like  honest  grafters,  before 
the  boat  sailed,  and  make  a  deal.  I  should  like  to 
know  exactly  what  they  consider  the  square  dishonest 
thing,  so  that  I  might  do  that  square  dishonest  thing 
— honestly.  It  is  unjust  being  kept  in  suspense. 
There  is  always  a  sword  of  Damocles  hanging  over 
the  heads  of  transatlantic  passengers,  to  descend 
on  the  day  of  landing.  I  have  seen  stout  men  quail, 
and  stouter  women  quiver  like  jellies. 

There  are  some  publications  on  the  subject  of  the 
ocean  trip  that  attempt  to  give  you  advice  on  this 
matter.  You  are  told  the  amount  that  is  "  usually  " 


194  The  Great  Wet  Way 

given  to  the  bedroom  steward,  and  the  table-stew- 
ard, and  the  others.  This  always  reminds  me  of 
my  "  penny-a-minute  "  experience  with  the  London 
cabby,  though  I  am  bound  to  admit  that  I  have  never 
noticed  any  scenes  on  the  dock  resembling  that 
episode  in  the  theatre-lobby.  The  ship's  stewards  are 
never  bottle-nosed,  and  sometimes  they  do  not  even 
speak  the  English  language.  Their  inability  to  use 
English  "  cuss  words  "  must  save  many  passengers 
from  perilous  moments  of  overwhelming  interjection. 
Gradually,  after  prolonged  experience,  one  gets 
used  to  tipping,  as  eels  get  used  to  being  skinned. 
One  tips  everybody  who  looks  tippishly-inclined, 
especially  after  having  visited  the  hotels  of  Italy  and 
Switzerland,  where  grave  and  portentous  creatures, 
wearing  much  gold  braid  and  many  gold  buttons, 
swallow  tips  voraciously.  When  I  left  my  hotel  in 
Rome,  I  tipped  a  man  who  had  never  done  any 
earthly  thing  for  any  of  us.  He  generally  stood  on 
the  stairs,  in  our  way,  as  we  descended.  When  he 
saw  us  he  got  out  of  our  way  and  smiled.  I  sup- 
pose I  tipped  him  for  getting  out  of  the  way.  He 
might  have  refused  to  move,  and  then  we  should 
have  had  to  jump  over  him.  In  some  hotels  the 
menials  stand  in  a  sort  of  kiss-in-the-ring  circle 
around  you,  and  you  give  to  each  a  "  little  some- 
thing," for  you  do  not  wish  to  miss  your  train.  I 
often  wonder  why  we  do  not  tip  the  hotel  proprietor, 
the  architect  who  designed  the  hotel,  and  the  labour- 


Tipping  195 

ers  who  erected  it.  If  they  stood  around  on  the  last 
day,  I  dare  say  we  should  tip  them.  I  should.  No 
more  scruples  will  ever  be  recorded  against  my  ac- 
count. Mine  not  to  reason  why. 

To  the  constant  traveller,  therefore,  the  trans- 
atlantic tip  is  not  quite  as  vexatious  as  it  is  to  the 
non-traveller.  He  has  become  partly  inured  to  the 
process,  even  though  it  -will  spring  incessant  sur- 
prises upon  him.  He  may  think  that  he  knows  it  in 
all  its  possible  variations,  but  there  will  be  some  new 
variation  to  delight  his  soul.  The  non-traveller  is 
amazed  and  discomfited.  It  is  he  who  writes  to  the 
papers,  possessed  of  a  delicious  grievance,  and  per- 
haps in  some  sympathetic  editorial  he  finds  balm. 
That  balm  will  be  healing — until  he  sets  forth  on 
his  travels  again.  Then  he  will  immediately  dis- 
cover that  it  was  a  temporary,  and  not  a  permanent, 
cure. 

Women  are  the  worst  tippers.  The  process  hurts 
them — not  that  they  are  lacking  in  generosity,  but 
simply  because  they  reason  about  it.  Have  you  ever 
studied  a  group  of  shopping  women  at  a  bargain- 
counter  in  Manhattan's  big  stores?  Have  you  ever 
watched  them  haggling  over  a  cent,  estimating 
values,  and  lost  in  opaque  reflection?  Well,  just 
think  of  these  women  confronted  with  the  awful 
problem  of  tipping,  which  in  many  cases  is  tanta- 
mount to  giving  something  for  nothing!  The  idea 
is  certainly  droll.  Yet  these  women  are  very  fre- 


196  The  Great  Wet  Way 

quently  ocean-travellers.    Would  you  like  to  be  their 
expectant  steward? 

The  man  who  hesitates  about  his  tip  is  lost.  There 
is  no  scope  for  reasoning.  There  may  be  every  ap- 
parent reason  for  withholding  the  tip — neglect, 
impoliteness,  apathy.  Tip  just  the  same,  and  just 
as  much — for  your  own  sake,  for  your  own  peace 
of  mind,  for  your  own  self-respect.  Tell  nobody. 
Do  not  brag  about  your  generosity.  If  you  do,  you 
will  meet  somebody  who  alleges  that  he  has  doubled 
you — and  you  cannot  re-double.  You  will,  therefore, 
feel  small  and  squirmy.  Do  not  believe  what  your 
neighbour  tells  you  as  to  the  size  of  his  tip.  He  may 
be  truthful,  but  in  this  matter  I  consider  that  it  is 
perfectly  pardonable  to  lie.  It  is  even  justifiable. 
Truth  is  one  of  my  strongest  weaknesses,  but  if  a 
man  be  fool  enough  to  tell  me  what  he  gave  his 
steward-of-the-table,  I  am  not  going  to  be  outdone 
when  one  pleasing  little  lie  will  see  me  through. 
Never.  I  may  evade  the  issue.  If,  for  example,  he 
says,  "  I  gave  my  bedroom  steward  twenty-five  dol- 
lars," when  I  have  merely  tipped  mine  five  dollars,  I 
may  remark,  "  Well,  I  think  that  is  just  about  right. 
You  couldn't  reasonably  have  given  him  less."  I  say 
this  quite  tranquilly,  because  I  know  that  he  has  not 
given  him  twenty-five  dollars.  If  he  had,  he  would 
have  told  me  fifty  dollars.  Confide  in  nobody.  That 
is  the  safest  policy.  Everybody  is  uneasy  on  the 
subject,  which  is  such  a  vague  one,  and  so  muddled. 


Tipping  197 

It  is  best  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  silence.     Disturb 
not  the  cloak  of  Monna  Vanna ! 

When  you  have  tipped,  look  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left.  Run  away,  and  let  the  breezes  on 
deck  fan  your  fevered  brow.  You  may  have  done 
right;  you  may  have  done  wrong;  but  you  have 
played  the  part  of  tipper  as  you  conceived  the  role. 
Your  "  reading "  may  differ  from  that  of  your 
neighbour.  But  it  is  your  reading,  and  perhaps  you 
have  been  very  original — quite  terribly  and  disas- 
trously original! 


NERVOUS   PASSENGERS 


EAR  of  the  sea  is 
an  inheritance.  It 
comes  to  us  from  a 
long  array  of  land- 
lubber ancestors — 
annoying  predeces- 
sors who  insist  on 
bequeath  ing  us 
some  of  their  un- 
cunning  little  ways, 
and  take  care  that 
we  never  start  in 
life  with  a  clean 
slate.  They  always 
leave  us  something — that  we  don't  want.  We  fear 
the  sea  to-day  for  no  other  conceivable  reason  than 
that  these  silly  old  ancestors  feared  it.  I'd  like  to 
meet  some  of  my  very  remote  ancestors,  face  to  face, 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  just  to  tell  them  what  I 
think  of  them.  Inheritances  that  one  cannot  cash 
are  such  dreadful  things  that  one  can  scarcely  blame 
Ibsen  for  waxing  morbid  on  the  theme. 

However  accustomed  you  may  become  to  ocean 
travel,  you  never  quite  forget  the  foolish  and  illogi- 

198 


Nervous  Passengers  199 

cal  idea  that  the  sea  is  a  risky  thing.  The  notion 
of  the  "  perils  of  the  ocean  "  is  imbedded  in  our 
substance.  And  very  funny  that  notion  seems  to- 
day. The  alleged  "  perils  of  the  ocean  "  loom  up 
as  broadly  farcical.  The  pampered  autocrat  who 
sleeps  under  silken  covers  in  a  "deck  suite";  who 
nourishes  himself  with  all  the  expensive  delicacies  of 
a  luxurious  age;  upon  whom  noiseless  menials  dance 
an  obsequious  attendance,  and  whose  avoirdupois  in- 
creases visibly  during  the  trip  from  Sandy  Hook  to 
the  Lizard,  still  feels  in  his  inner  self  that  he  is  bat- 
tling with  the  "  perils  of  the  ocean."  What  he 
would  feel  if  he  were  lashed  to  a  mast  and  fed  on 
hard  tack,  it  is  impossible  to  imagine.  Perhaps  he 
would  look  upon  that  fate  as  the,  "  humour  of  the 
ocean." 

The  sense  of  insecurity  in  the  midst  of  what,  com- 
pared with  the  perils  of  land,  is  really  double-bar- 
relled security,  may  not  be  analysed.  It  is  our  en- 
dowment. Let  us  not  look  a  gift  horse  in  the  mouth. 
Some  of  us  temporarily  forget  our  inheritance,  and 
firmly  believe  that  we  have  no  sense  of  any  risk,  as 
we  step  blithely  across  the  gang-plank  to  our  float- 
ing hotel,  but  the  idea  is  there  just  the  same.  It  is 
latent,  and  it  is  always  ready  to  pop  out  and  dis- 
arm us. 

If  it  were  not  for  those  irrepressible  old  ances- 
tors, we  should  give  the  ocean  steamer  the  credit 
that  it  deserves,  and  acknowledge  that  for  one  week, 


200  The  Great  Wet  Way 

at  any  rate,  it  sheltered  us  from  the  abnormal  and 
soul-racking  perils  of  land — from  roaring  trips  in 
subterranean  tunnels,  from  rickety  ascensions  in 
apathetic  elevators,  from  the  exhilarating  uncer- 
tainty of  the  raging  motor,  and  from  the  insidious 
attack  of  the  bogey-thing  we  call  by  the  pet  name 
of  microbe,  or  germ,  or  bacillus.  We  should  feel 
that  the  isolated  liner,  moving  spendidly  across  the 
face  of  the  waters,  removed  us  from  civilisation's 
perils.  We  do  not  feel  this — just  because  of  ances- 
tors that  were  forced  upon  us,  and  for  whom  we 
have  no  use  whatever.  It  seems  too  bad,  doesn't  it? 
And  to  think  that  the  only  time  one  ever  sees  one'* 
ancestors  is  at  night,  after  a  Welsh  rarebit,  or  a 
lobster  a  la  Newburg,  when  it  is  quite  impossible  to 
give  them  a  piece  of  one's  mind  I 

Relics  of  the  barbarous  notion  of  S£a-peril  con- 
front us  relentlessly,  even  before  the  steamer  sails,, 
The  dock  is  crowded  with  wailing  ones,  there  to  say 
a  last  good-bye,  with  a  display  of  grief  so  pic- 
turesque that  it  might  have  been  designed  to  deco- 
rate an  expedition  to  the  North  Pole.  The  loved 
ones  are  about  to  embark.  Night  will  set  in,  and 
they  will  be  miles  and  miles  away,  struggling  with 
the  dark  fury  of  the  Atlantic.  Tears  are  shed  by 
the  sad  people  who  are  left  to  mourn. 

The  passengers  who  are  just  aching  to  get  away 
grow  a  trifle  timid  of  course.  The  lamentations  of 
the  mourners  coax  forth  the  old  idea  of  the  perils  of 


Nervous  Passengers 


201 


the  ocean.  Farewell  gifts  are  lavished  upon  them 
with  lugubrious  generosity.  These  gifts  do  not  vary 
much.  There  are  unbudging  fashions  in  this  style 
of  mourning.  One  notes  the  cushion  on  which  "  Bon 
Voyage  "  has  been  embroidered  by  some  dear,  fond 
hand.  The  happy  traveller  bursts  into  tears  as  this 
wonderful  thought  is  handed  to  her.  Occasionally 
it  has  "  Good  Luck  "  on  it,  but  the  French  inscrip- 
tion is  much  more  popular.  Gorgeous  floral  pieces 
are  sent  to  the  ship — very  much  like  those  that  are 
sent  to  funerals.  Unconsciously  one  looks  among 
the  flowers  in  the  saloon  for  "  The  Gates  Ajar." 
People  spend  fortunes  on  flowers  for  departing 


202  The  Great  Wet  Way 

sailors,  though  the  exact  reason  why  a  lovely  gar- 
den's blossoms  should  always  typify  the  end,  I  have 
not  discovered.  The  ship's  saloon  is  all  aglow  with 
the  splendid  tints  of  the  flowers.  Cards  are  attached 
to  each  piece,  just  the  same  as  at  a  funeral.  The 
difference  is  the  omission  of  condolences. 

Gifts  of  fruit  and  candy  seem  a  trifle  more  cheer- 
ful. They  imply  that  the  dear  departing  one  may 
perchance  be  able  to  eat  them,  which  is  a  more  opti- 
mistic idea.  Most  sailing  day  presents,  however,  are 
the  result  of  impenetrable  pessimism,  symbolic  of  the 
aged  notion  that  the  ocean  is  a  mighty,  cruel 
monster. 

The  departure  is  intensely  pathetic.  A  bell  rings. 
A  stentorian  voice  calls  out,  "  All  visitors  for  the 
shore !  "  It  is  the  last  moment,  which  is  sad  on 
principle.  Friends  prepare  to  leave  the  miserable 
passengers  to  their  fate.  They  have  done  all  they 
could  for  the  poor  things.  They  have  inspected  the 
staterooms,  full  of  compassion  for  the  unfortunates 
doomed  to  spend  a  week  in  such  stuffy  quarters.  You 
listen  to  strange  comments. 

"  To  think  of  you  in  this  little  cubby  hole  all  by 
yourself  for  a  week,"  says  a  fond  mother  to  her 
helpless  boy.  "Oh,  why  did  I  let  you  go?"  And 
she  bursts  into  tears. 

"Is  this  where  you  sleep?"  asks  a  doting  wife  of 
her  curiously  unmoved  husband.  "  Oh,  you  poor, 
poor  thing!"  And  she  sobs  on  his  shoulder. 


Nervous  Passengers 


203 


II 

m 

ililili  -  fj^^i 

IK  |  it 

\ 

L             J 

•^•^•0^ 

1 

WQM 

"  Dear  little  creatures !  May  Heaven  protect 
you,  and  bring  you  safely  through  all  peril,"  mur- 
murs grandmamma,  as  she  views  the  children's 
stateroom.  "  How  dreadful  it  all  is !  "  And  the 
poor  soul  creeps  away,  the  tears  coursing  down  her 
furrowed  cheeks. 

The  bell  has  rung,  however,  and  the  inevitable 
must  be  faced.  Some  fond  relatives  cannot  bear  to 
leave  the  ship  so  callously.  It  is  all  so  cruel.  They 
see  the  Captain,  who  is  terribly  busy,  and  a  trifle 
fractious.  They  pounce  on  him,  and  ask  him  if  the 
weather  is  going  to  be  fine,  and  if  he  has  any  idea 
what  time  the  ship  will  arrive  on  the  other  side. 
The  Captain  loves  to  be  asked  such  questions,  but 
he  carefully  conceals  all  evidence  of  such  love.  He 
answers  very  brusquely  that  he  "  really  couldn't 
say,"  although  he  may  be  dying  to  tell  them  that  it 
will  be  calm  all  the  way  over,  and  that  the  boat  will 
arrive  at  sixteen  minutes  past  two  on  the  afternoon 
of  Thursday  week. 


204  The  Great  Wet  Way 

Then  the  mourners  troop  down  the  gang-plank, 
turning  occasionally  to  glance  at  the  loved  ones  on 
the  ship,  who  look  "  so  natural."  It  is  most  melan- 
choly. Even  if  you  happen  to  be  running  away  from 
your  creditors,  you  feel  sad  and  forlorn.  This 
trip  may  have  been  the  dream  of  your  life,  but  the 
farewells  are  so  touching  that  you  are  hopelessly 
depressed.  You  are  going  to  the  "  old  "  world,  but 
you  might  be  starting  for  the  "  next "  world,  so 
final  is  the  atmosphere.  Friends  all  seem  so  anxious 
to  take  a  "  last  look  "  at  you  I  They  troop  to  the 
end  of  the  dock  to  see  your  silent  exit — almost  as 
though  they  wanted  to  make  quite  sure,  and  see  with 
their  own  eyes,  that  it  was  your  exit — and  no  mis- 
take about  it.  They  wave  tear-soaked  handker- 
chiefs. You  can  almost  hear  those  dear  ones  mur- 
muring, as  the  ship  moves:  "Well,  he's  gone!"  or 
"That's  the  last  of  her  I" 

The  real  truth  is  that  these  well-meaning  but  tra- 
dition-riddled dear  ones  go  sadly  away  to  the  perils  of 
land,  while  the  sailors  are  moving  slowly  towards  the 
glorious  security  of  the  sea.  The  dear  ones  weep  for 
the  departed  who  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  jolly  Cap- 
tain, as  they  confide  themselves  to  the  care  of  an  un- 
godly chauffeur.  Seriously,  tradition  is  a  farce.  If 
passengers  could  cross  the  ocean  in  a  passionate  au- 
tomobile, nobody  would  shed  a  tear;  but  just  because 
the  trip  is  made  in  a  dispassionate  ocean  steamer, 
everybody  weeps. 


Nervous  Passengers 


205 


So,  as  you  move  slowly 
away,  the  idea  of  old 
ocean's  peril,  dormant 
in  your  subconscious- 
ness,  has  been  lured  to 
life.  Your  heritage  as- 
serts its  power,  and  you 
remember  that  the  sea 
is  wet  and  deep.  The 
first  thing  that  strikes 
your  eye  as  you  reach 
your  stateroom  is  the 
curious  decoration  of  its 
ceiling.  This  is  ornamented  with  life-belts!  They 
give  you  a  shock.  It  seems  ominous.  Why  are  the 
life-belts  there?  Why  are  there  instructions  out- 
side teaching  you  how  to  adjust  them?  It  is  a  grue- 
some sight — those  life-belts  with  no  passengers  in 
them. 

Departing  friends  have  made  you  feel  nervous, 
and  you  stand  and  look  at  that  array  of  life-belts. 
They  conjure  up  nice  old  ideas  of  ocean's  peril.  For 
one  hectic  moment,  perhaps,  you  see  yourself  floating 
on  the  heaving  bosom  of  the  Atlantic,  garbed  in  a 
life-belt,  scanning  the  horizon  for  "'a  sail."  It  is 
quite  ghastly.  Nervous  passengers  never  fail  to 
regard  the  life-belts,  and  to  read  the  instructions  for 
their  adjustment.  Possibly,  some  try  them  on, 
though  they  do  not  boast  about  it.  In  fact,  the  life- 


206  The  Great  Wet  Way 

belts  are  never  discussed.  They  are  a  sort  of  ta- 
booed subject.  You  see  your  room-mate  looking  at 
them  fearfully,  but  you  say  nothing.  You  hope  that 
he  will  say  nothing.  There  are  some  topics  that  it 
is  best  to  avoid.  Just  the  same,  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  adjust  a  belt,  when  you  are  quite  alone,  and 
see  how  it  works.  When  you  have  made  that  resolu- 
tion you  feel  much  better — almost  as  though  the 
life-belt  had  saved  you. 

Nervous  passengers  are  not  at  all  ashamed  of 
their  condition.  They  glory  in  it.  They  seem  to 
consider  it  due  to  refinement,  and  to  look  upon  non- 
nervous  passengers  as  rather  brazen  creatures,  lost 
to  all  sense  of  subtlety.  They  are  always  looking 
for  trouble,  and  appear  to  be  quite  vexed-  that  their 
quest  is  so  futile.  Sometimes  they  tell  you  that  they 
never  sleep  at  night;  that  they  decline  to  let  them- 
selves sleep,  and  that  they  are  worn  out  with  their 
vigil. 

The  fog  horn  drives  them  distracted.  I  will  ad- 
mit that  there  is  sweeter  music  than  this  Wagnerian 
leit-motif  of  the  mist;  also  that  the  automatic  regu- 
larity of  the  instrument  is  not  conducive  to  slumber. 
Nervous  passengers  hear  it,  and  scent  immediate 
danger.  They  refuse  to  be  comforted.  They  are 
hopelessly  "  rattled."  The  fog  horn  that  continues 
all  through  the  stilly  night  sounds  like  the  "  crack 
of  doom."  Timid  people  find  themselves  waiting 
for  an  answer.  Sometimes  they  -lie  in  their  bunks, 


Nervous  Passengers  207 

expecting  the  grand  bump !  People  who  have  no 
fear  in  the  sleeping  car  of  an  express  train,  running 
on  rails,  look  confidently  fcr  collision  at  sea,  just  be- 
cause a  veil  of  fog  has  descended.  They  envy  the 
loved  ones  on  shore,  and  wonder  what  impelled 
them  to  brave  the  "  perils." 

Of  course  nobody  could  possibly  feel  any  very 
ecstatic  affection  for  the  fog  horn.  It  is  not  a  lova- 
ble thing.  Passengers  who  complain  about  a  lack 
of  everything  on  board  ship  never  complain  about 
a  lack  of  fog  horn.  Sometimes  its  first  blast  wakes 
them  out  of  a  sound  sleep,  and  plunges  them  into  an 
agony  of  apprehension.  One  cannot  help  feeling 
-sorry  for  them,  but  it  is  often  difficult  to  give  them 
as  much  sympathy  as  they  exact. 

If  you  have  been  cold-blooded  and  nerveless 
enough  to  sleep  through  the  fog  horn's  uncanny  do- 
ings, never  admit  it.  That  is  a  piece  of  advice  that 
I  must  strongly  emphasise.  The  very  first  thing 
you  will  be  asked  in  the  morning  is,  "  Wasn't  the 
fog  horn  dreadful  ?  " 

If,  in  a  spirit  of  bravado — also  in  accordance  with 
the  strict  truth — you  remark  that  you  slept  soundly, 
and  never  heard  the  wild  blasts,  you  will  be  regarded 
as  a  brazen,  conscienceless  fibber,  as  well  as  a  mean, 
unsympathetic,  and  bragging  outcast.  Nobody  will 
believe  you.  Nervous  passengers  will  consider  that 
you  are  laughing  at  them.  You  may  even  be  accused 
of  having  looked  upon  the  wine  when  it  was  red. 


ao8  The  Great  Wet  Way 

Even  in  the  smokeroom,  where  everybody  laughs  at 
the  fog  horn  in  the  day  time,  you  will  not  be  popu- 
lar if  you  confess  that  you  did  not  hear  it  at  night. 
You  will  seem  to  be  taking  a  mean  advantage 
of  your  fellows.  The  man  who  can  sleep  when 
everybody  else  is  awake  does  not  cut  a  happy 
figure. 

Tell  the  lady  who  informs  you  that  she  never 
slept  a  wink  all  night;  that  she  was  dreadfully 
frightened;  that  she  had  her  jewel  box  all  ready 
for  the  life-boats;  and  that  she  never  really  expected 
to  be  alive  in  the  morning,  that  you  are  not  surprised. 
It  was  indeed  terrifying.  If  the  Captain  wants  to 
make  the  hit  of  his  life — and  he  generally  does — 
he  will  rejoice  the  timid  passengers  by  informing 
them  that  it  was  the  very  worst  fog  he  ever  saw 
on  the  Atlantic;  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to 
cope  with  it;  that  he  had  sat  up  all  night  in  dumb 
misery,  and  that — well,  he  had  pulled  the  boat 
through.  Etcetera,  etcetera.  Some  Captains  are 
very  kind  in  that  way.  Nervous  passengers  love  to 
believe  that  their  nervousness  was  legitimate.  They 
are  happy  to  learn  that  a  little  "  blow "  was  a 
cyclone,  or  that  no  other  ship  could  possibly  have 
behaved  in  a  storm  as  admirably  as  this  particular 
ship.  Some  Captains  also  are  not  very  kind  in  that 
way,  and  nervous  passengers  are  extremely  dis- 
pleased to  hear  that  the  fog  was  the  "  usual  thing 
on  the  Banks,"  and  that  the  furious  driving  storm 


Nervous  Passengers  209 

was  a  delusion.  They  are  sure  that  it  was  a  cyclone, 
and  that  the  Captain  is  "  keeping  it  from  them."  On 
the  chart,  next  day,  they  are  quite  indignant  to  note 
that  the  sea,  which  they  diaried  as  "mountains 
high,"  is  chronicled  as  "  moderate." 

Nervous  passengers  watch  the  Captain  as  a  cat 
watches  a  mouse.  They  take  particular  interest  in 
his  meals.  The  Captain's  food  plays  a  very  impor- 
tant role  with  them.  Sometimes  they  are  horrified 
to  see  him  calmly  taking  his  dinner  in  the  saloon 
while  the  ship  is  prancing  around  frantically.  They 
wonder  if  he  is  shrinking  his  duty  and  overlooking  his 
work  on  the  "  bridge  "  for  the  mere  creature  com- 
forts of  the  table.  They  whisper;  they  are  very 
concerned;  they  watch  every  morsel  that  the  poor 
man  puts  into  his  mouth;  they  note,  in  perturbation, 
the  close  attention  that  he  pays  to  the  various  courses. 
I  have  heard  them  gently  hint  at  these  sentiments. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  your 
post  on  deck?  "  said  a  timid  lady  to  the  hungry  Cap- 
tain last  year,  as  she  watched  him  poring  over  the 
menu,  while  the  ship  was  executing  a  pleasing  pas 
seul. 

"  Not  all,  Madame,"  replied  the  Captain,  as  he 
gave  a  leisurely  order  to  his  own  obsequious  stew- 
ard. "  I'm  very  comfortable,  thanks." 

The  lady  looked  meaningly  at  her  companion  on 
the  right.  Her  companion  nudged  her.  She  re- 
tured  to  the  fray.  "  It  is  a  good  thing  to  take  one's 


2IO 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


time  at  meals,"  she  resumed,  with  a  little  nervous 
laugh,  "  but  I  presume  that  you  daren't  stay  very 
long  at  table." 

"  I  certainly  dare,"  responded  the  Captain,  in 
gayest  humour.  "  I  have  a  very  good  appetite. 
Hope  you  have.  This  nice  weather  makes  me 
hungry." 

"  Nice  weather! "  ejaculated  the  lady,  holding  on 
to  her  soup-plate.  "Well,  I  declare!  You  are  jok- 
ing, Captain.  Is  the — is  the — er — ship  in  any  dan- 
ger?" 

The  Captain  bit  his  lip.  He  called  the  steward, 
analysed  the  menu  very  deliberately,  questioned  the 
steward  as  to  the  possible  merit  of  certain  dishes, 
and  made  his  selection.  Then  he  turned  to  the  lady : 
"  I  hope  not,  Madame,"  he  said,  with  a  catch  in  his 
voice. 


Nervous  Passengers  211 

She  could  stand  it  no  longer.  This  was  the  last 
straw.  "If  you  think  you  ought  to  go  on  deck, 
Captain,"  she  suggested  delicately,  "  we  will  excuse 
you.  Of  course,  we  like  to  have  you  with  us.  Still 
— I  feel  very  nervous,  and  so  does  Mrs.  Smith. 
Don't  you,  dear?" — to  the  neighbour. 

"  Quite,"  asserted  dear.  "  We  like  you  very 
much,  Captain  " — with  a  titter — "  but  we'll  let  you 
go,  if  you  think  it  necessary." 

Did  he?  That  Captain  seemed  to  be  suddenly 
gnawed  by  hunger  that  was  extraordinary.  He  went 
all  through  the  bill  of  fare  at  a  steady  canter.  He 
was  good-natured  and  happy,  as  most  Captains  are. 
He  did  not  request  the  nervous  ladies  to  confine  them- 
selves exclusively  to  their  own  business.  He  just 
sat  there  and  enjoyed  himself  until,  in  desperation, 
the  timid  ones  rose  and  left  the  table. 

"  They  think  I'm  making  them  nervous,"  he  said 
to  me  when  they  had  gone,  and  he  had  laughed 
heartily.  "  If  I  had  appeared  to  heed  them,  and 
had  gone  upstairs,  they  would  have  been  much  more 
nervous.  They  would  have  retired  to  their  state- 
rooms, to  collect  their  jewels,  say  their  prayers,  and 
hope  for  the — er — worst.  Oh,  I  know  'em,,  I  let 
'em  alone." 

The  absence  of  the  Captain  from  the  saloon  is 
noted  with  much  apprehension  by  timid  people,  who 
are  also  scared  at  his  presence.  He  can  do  no  right. 
They  are  alarmed  if  they  see  him  eating;  they  are 


212  The  Great  Wet  Way 

frightened  if  they  do  not  see  him  eating.  In  th? 
former  case,  they  affect  to  believe  that  he  is  negli- 
gent; in  the  latter,  that  he  is  responding  to  urgent 
calls.  Why  does  he  not  try  to  pacify  them  by  tell- 
ing them  that  all  is  well?  Because,  as  the  particular 
Captain  I  have  quoted  above,  remarked,  he  knows 
'em.  He  is  quite  aware  of  the  fact  that  it  is  their 
inheritance  of  sea  fear  which  is  responsible  for  their 
mood.  No  words  of  his  could  overcome  it.  It  must 
run  its  course  like  measles  or  whooping  cough,  mala- 
dies that  are  better  out  than  in.  He  is  perfectly 
serene;  he  knows  that  nervous  passengers  are  inevi- 
table. They  do  not  amuse  him,  but  they  do  not  annoy 
him.  Nor  do  they  interfere  in  the  least  with  his 
healthy  and  prodigious  appetite.  The  time  to  be 
really  fearful  would  occur  when  the  Captain  sat  at 
table  unable  to  eat.  Then  one  might  feel  that 
things  had  indeed  "  come  to  a  pretty  pass."  But  the 
un-hungry  Captain  never  happens.  His  digestion  is 
always  excellent;  he  is,  moreover,  a  connoisseur.  If 
you  listen  to  the  advice  of  the  Captain  at  table,  you 
will  learn  not  how  to  dominate  a  ship,  but  how  to 
steer  your  digestive  apparatus  along  the  road  that 
leads  to  peace.  The  Captain  loves  the  good  things 
of  life. 

Stewards  cater  to  nervous  passengers  in  the  way 
they  think  best  for  the  evolution  of  tips.  Some- 
times it  is  advisable  to  reassure  the  timid  ones  by 
absolutely  certifying  the  ship's  sterling  powers  of 


Nervous  Passengers  213 

endurance.  The  steward  will  declare  unblushingly 
that  there  is  no  other  ship  on  the  ocean  as  steady 
as  this.  There  is  no  other  vessel  that  rides  the 
waves  as  she  does.  Why,  she  was  built  for  wave- 
riding. 

"Take  some  of  them  five-day  boats,"  he  will  say 
contemptuously,  "  they  would  be  standing  on  their 
'eads  in  this  weather.  And  the  vibration!  It  is 
something  terrible.  This  ship  takes  its  time,  to  be 
sure,  but  it's  as  gentle  as  a  lamb.  This  would  be 
bad  weather  for  a  good  many  boats,  but  we  can 
stand  it.  We  are  built  for  it.  The  racers  are  not 
constructed  for  the  comfort  of  passengers.  No, 
ma'am.  If  I  had  my  way,  I'd  never  cross  on  any 
other  boat  but  this." 

This  same  steward  may  see  a  tip  in  another  direc- 
tion from  the  other  brand  of  nervous  passenger. 
He  will  tell  a  somewhat  different  story  in  his  artless 
way. 

"  I  don't  blame  you  for  feeling  nervous,"  he  will 
say.  "  It  is  terrific  weather.  The  first  officer  was 
just  telling  me  that  this  is  the  worst  gale  he  has  ever 
experienced.  Everybody  is  ill.  Why,  the  steward- 
esses themselves  can  scarcely  do  their  work.  It  is 
dreadful;  it  really  is.  There's  no  danger — not  a 
bit.  You  can  be  sure  of  that,  but  it  is  a  bad  trip. 
You  will  be  able  to  tell  your  friends  that  you  had 
the  roughest  crossing  in  years." 

The  steward  who  understands  the  idiosyncrasies 


214 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


of  the  nervous  passen- 
ger usually  comes  out 
very  well  when  the  tips 
are  distributed.  He  never 
laughs  at  the  timid  ones; 
that  would  nip  his  hopes 
in  the  bud.  He  brings 
a  certain  artistic  sympa- 
thy into  play,  and  uses  it 
for  all  it  is  worth.  The 
nervous  passenger  feels 
confidence  in  him;  rings 
for  him  perpetually  just  to  listen  to  his  consoling 
words,  and  the  steward  never  loses  his  temper. 

Sometimes  you  may  hear  the  stewards  and  stew- 
ardesses discussing  the  various  cranks  confided  to 
them,  and  enjoying  many  hearty  laughs.  It  is  just 
as  well  that  the  cranks  themselves  never  hear 
this. 

The  ship's  servants  seem  to  prefer  bad  weather.  It 
brings  out  all  their  human  traits.  Love's  labour  is 
lost  when  the  sun  shines.  When  it  refuses  to  shine, 
and  the  Atlantic  is  peevish,  love's  labour  looks  long- 
ingly at  a  happy  goal — which  is  surely  a  very  human 
trait. 

On  the  modern  liner  the  object  is  to  do  away  with 
the  idea  of  the  sea  as  much  as  possible,  and  to  imi- 
tate the  notion  of  a  big  hotel.  The  decks  are  care- 
fully enclosed,  so  that  not  a  breeze  blows  over  them. 


Nervous  Passengers 


215 


Sometimes  they  have  glass  windows,  and  you  can 
sit  in  your  steamer  chair  and  almost  forget  that  you 
are  on  board.  There  are  corners  that  might  almost 
be  called  "cosy,"  where  the 
zephyrs  never  reach — gloomy 
corners  that  the  nervous  ones 
love.  Everything  in  ocean 
travel  tends  nowadays  to  the 
elimination  of  the  role  for- 
merly played  by  the  ocean, 
which  was  once  the  "  star," 
and  is  gradually  being  pushed 
down  to  the  position  of  a 
"  supe."  Those  that  love  the  sea  repine  at  this,  but 
the  intention  is  to  rout  our  inherited  sea  horror. 
The  band  on  board  labours  with  that  object  in 
view.  Perhaps  it  routs  the  sea  horror,  but  it  con- 
jures up  another — a  rag-time  horror  which  is  much 
worse. 

Nervous  passengers  look  more  cheerful  when  they 
listen  to  the  strains  of  "  popular  "  music  on  deck 
and  in  the  dining  saloon.  Those  who  are  not  nerv- 
ous almost  wish  that  they  were.  The  band  is  a 
desperate  remedy,  and  a  cruel  one.  It  suggests 
Coney  Island  in  a  petulant  mood,  and  timid  people 
cannot  think  of  their  fears  as  they  listen  to  its  solac- 
ing land  grind.  It  is  so  cheerful — so  persecutingly 
cheerful.  The  band  starts  its  atrocious  consolation 
as  the  ship  sails.  At  that  time  it  means  well,  for 


216  The  Great  Wet  Way 

its  purpose  is  to  offset  the  conspicuous  miseries  of 
the  accentuated  farewell.  It  resumes  its  work  at 
dinner;  it  plays  for  an  hour  on  deck  each  morning. 
(Please  note  that  I  do  not  say  how  it  plays,  or  what 
it  plays.)  And  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  it  inspires 
confidence  in  the  many — and  other  things  in  the 
few.  Possibly  the  band  would  play  if  the  ship 
were  sinking.  I  have  never  questioned  the  "  musi- 
cians," but  I  am  convinced  that  their  orders  are  to 
play  until  the  very  last  passenger  is  submerged — and 
I  think  that  if  I  were  the  last  passenger  I  should 
hurry  up  and  get  submerged  as  quickly  as  possible. 
The  band  would  be  an  incentive. 

The  effect  of  music  is  of  course  unquestioned.  The 
effect  is  therapeutic.  Perhaps  it  does  lessen  the 
nervous  fears  of  the  many  at  the  expense  of  the 
mental  serenity  of  the  few.  One  doesn't  seem  to  be 
on  board  ship  when  the  band  plays.  One  seems  to 
be — well,  never  mind ;  'tis  best  not  to  be  too  explicit. 
Music  hath  charms — when  it  is  music.  Timid  ones, 
listening  to  the  ship's  band  that  plays  the  very  airs 
one  is  running  away  from,  think  of  the  warm  secur- 
ity, or  alleged  security,  of  a  theatre,  and  feel  that  they 
are  there.  The  sea  horror  is  pounded  out  of  them 
temporarily.  The  music  at  dinner  robs  the  Atlantic 
of  its  "  qualities "  and  substitutes  those  of  Forty- 
second  Street.  Even  the  English  liners  are  begin- 
ning to  annex  the  hard-working  band.  Soon  there 
will  be  no  escape  from  it  except  on  a  freight  boat. 


Nervous  Passengers 


217 


Possibly  freight  boats  will  take  to  bands  for  nervous 
sailors. 

The  band  makes  you  think  that  you  are  on  a 
picnic.  It  is  a  lovely  thought,  but  it  palls.  A  picnic 
every  day  for  seven  days  would 
weary  the  most  ardent  picnic 
lover.  But  nervous  passengers 
are  satisfied.  The  flavour  of  the 
ocean  trip  is  defrauded  of  its 
piquancy,  and  they  fear  that 
piquancy.  They  ask  for*  the 
cosy  joys  of  land,  as  they  tra-. 
verse  the  waste  of  waters. 
Nervous  passengers  would  like 
to  gaze  from  the  deck  of  a 
steamer  upon  sky-scrapers,  and 
dry-goods  stores,  and  palatial  mansions,  in  mid-At- 
lantic. They  are  fractious  because  this  seems  to  be 
impossible  at  present.  Steamship  companies  will 
probably  cater  to  this  pronounced  need  later  on.  The 
ship  might  be  surrounded  by  canvas  on  which  realis- 
tic pictures  of  land's  finest  features  could  be  painted. 
It  may  yet  come  to  pass  that  we  cross  the  ocean 
without  seeing  as  much  as  a  cup  full  of  sea  water. 
That  would  be  so  delightful,  wouldn't  it?  The 
nervous  passenger  is  the  victim  of  an  idea  only.  Facts 
prove  that  he  is  safer  on  an  ocean  steamer  than  he 
is  on  a  fast-flying  train,  but  he  is  obsessed  by  his  in- 
heritance, and  facts  are  powerless  to  comfort  him.  Nor 


2i 8  The  Great  Wet  Way 

is  he  at  all  anxious  to  be  comforted.  He  feels  that 
he  is  jeopardising  his  life  to  some  extent;  he  has 
some  inkling  of  heroism  in  the  act,  and  he  talks  of 
that  lethargic  week  of  rest  and  relaxation  and 
healthy  deck  life  as  though  it  were  an  ordeal  through 
which  cruel  fate  had  propelled  him.  The  fast 
steamer  is  his  friend.  One  can  cross  in  four  days 
now,  he  will  tell  you  joyously;  soon  that  time  will 
be  reduced  to  three  days.  He  wonders  if  there  will 
ever  be  a  pneumatic  tube  through  which  we  can  be 
shot  with  exquisite  rapidity.  The  pneumatic  tube 
for  him  any  day  I 

The  nervous  passenger  is  a  curious  creature, 
amusing  to  begin  with,  but  somewhat  fatiguing  as 
a  steady  pastime.  He  is  unmistakable.  He  is  fussy 
and  irritable;  he  is  "not  himself,"  he  will  tell  you. 
He  cannot  help  it,  he  is  always  that  way  on  the 
ocean.  He  may  even  be  an  experienced  traveller; 
the  nervous  traveller  is  not  invariably  the  person 
who  is  making  his  first  trip  across.  That  may  sound 
strange,  but  it  is  true.  Sometimes  he  impresses  you 
in  spite  of  yourself,  and  drags  from  your  subcon- 
sciousness  your  own  inheritance. 

He  has  heard  the  stewards  whispering;  he  has 
seen  the  Captain  looking  extremely  serious;  he  was 
awake  when  the  engines  stopped  suddenly  in  the 
night;  he  noticed  certain  ominous  creakings  in  his 
stateroom;  he  has  observed  the  sailors  apparently 
getting  the  life-boats  ready,  and  he  feels  it  his  duty 


Nervous  Passengers  219 

just  to  put  you  on  your  guard.  And  you  laugh 
mirthlessly,  and  admit  to  yourself  that  you  do  feel 
a  bit  uncomfortable.  You  ask  him  to  tell  you  all 
he  knows,  and  to  conceal  nothing,  which  he  is  quite 
willing  to  do.  You  pity  the  other  passengers,  uncon- 
scious of  anything  unusual  happening.  If  you  need 
company  you  tell  them,  and  induce  them  to  join  the 
merry,  nervous  throng,  which  is  easy.  The  sea  hor- 
ror is  always  there,  waiting  to  be  invited  out. 

The  very  best  thing  to  do  with  the  nervous  pas- 
senger is  to  find  a  mate  for  him,  and  leave  them 
together  in  happy  unhappiness;  to  avoid  them  con- 
scientiously, as  though  they  had  something  catch- 
ing, which  they  assuredly  have. 


XI 


THE  CONCERT 

EE  that  long  and  serried 
array  of  mute  and  mo- 
tionless figures,  swathed 
in  mummy-clothes,  and 
looking  like  the  effigies 
of  the  Kings  and 
Queens  on  the  tombs  in 
Westminster  Abbey  or 
the  dessicated  ghosts  in 
the  Egyptian  room  of 
the  British  Museum? 
Well,  they  are  passen- 
gers who  are  not  feel- 
ing happy.  But  there 
will  be  a  great  resurrec- 
tion of  these  mummies  towards  the  end  of  the  trip. 
They  will  arise,  and  they  will  cast  off  their  mummy- 
clothes.  They  will  sing,  and  they  will  recite,  and 
they  will  play  the  piano,  and  the  banjo,  the  violin, 
and  other  instruments  of  torture.  They  will  take 
part  in  the  Atlantic  Ocean's  sublime  relaxation — the 
ship's  concert. 

It  is  quite  possible  to  escape  the  ship's  concert, 

220 


The  Concert  221 

but  it  is  not  at  all  probable.  Do  not  buoy  yourselves 
up  with  false  hopes.  Do  not  pin  your  faith  to  the 
continuance  of  rough  weather.  Do  not  reason  that 
because  most  of  the  women  look  as  though  they  can- 
not sing — they  will  not  sing.  For  they  will.  Those 
who  can  sing  the  least  will  sing  the  most.  The  re- 
cuperative forces  of  the  ocean  are  far-reaching.  The 
ocean  is  alse  a  potent  discoverer  of  "  talent."  It 
converts  the  most  inoffensive  and  diffident  of  men,  as 
well  as  the  most  guileless  and  ingenuous  of  women, 
into  unabashed  and  virulent  "  entertainers." 

There  is  always  on  board  ship  some  hustler,  upon 
whose  hands  time  hangs  heavily,  and  who  is  willing 
to  "  arrange  "  a  concert.  He  secures  the  Captain's 
permission.  The  Captain  is  a  wise  man  in  his  gen- 
eration. He  will  always  permit  a  concert,  but  he  will 
not  always  attend  it.  He  will  discover  on  the  event- 
ful night  that  he  is  needed  on  the  bridge,  or  that  duty 
compels  him  to  work  in  his  room.  One  admires  the 
Captain ;  one  envies  him,  as  well. 

It  is  the  hustler's  pleasant  duty  to  collect  "  talent." 
He  is  a  very  officious  person,  and  he  loves  the  work. 
He  pretends  that  it  is  most  distasteful  to  him,  and 
that  he  is  actuated  by  purest  motives  of  charity.  My 
opinion  is  that  he  has  elected  himself  to  this  job,  a 
week  before  sailing,  and  that  it  is  his  great  chance 
for  becoming  temporarily  "  prominent."  He  invokes 
charity  as  his  excuse.  The  proceeds  of  the  concert 
will  go  to  the  orphans  of  seamen.  No  people  on 


222  The  Great  Wet  Way 

earth  seem  to  have  as  many  orphans  as  seamen.  Liv- 
erpool must  be  entirely  populated  by  orphans.  For 
twenty  years  I  have  had  Liverpool  orphans  foisted 
upon  me.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  indulge  in  levity 
at  the  expense  of  unfortunate  children,  but  one 
never  hears  of  any  decrease  in  the  ranks  of  the 
orphans. 

Boatloads  of  people  sing  for  them,  dance  for 
them,  recite  for  them,  whistle  for  them,  and  read  for 
them.  Still,  they  are  there  next  time — just  as  for- 
lorn and  miserable.  You  never  hear  that  the 
orphans  are  doing  nicely,  that  they  are  able  to  sit 
up  and  take  nourishment,  or  are  as  well  as  can  be 
expected.  You  never  hear  anything  at  all.  The 
concert  takes  place.  There  could  be  no  concert  if 
there  were  no  orphans.  Nobody  would  dare  to  offer 
such  an  entertainment  for  mere  pleasure !  It  is  like 
the  charity  bazaar,  in  which  you  see  more  bazaar 
than  charity. 

The  hustler  comes  up  to  you  as  you  are  resting 
in  your  steamer-chair  and  tells  you  that  there  is  to 
be  a  concert  on  board  for  the  benefit  of  the  Liver- 
pool orphans.  (Sometimes  you  hear  of  Staten 
Island  orphans.)  Will  you  take  part  in  the  enter- 
tainment? You  murmur  a  few  words  of  protest — 
for  this  is  so  sudden — and  regret  that  you  possess 
no  available  talent.  Oh,  yes,  he  says,  surely  you 
sing?  You  tell  him  that  you  have  never  sung  a  note 
in  your  life.  He  is  politely  incredulous.  In  the 


The  Concert 


223 


name  of  charity,  he  insinuates  that  your  are  telling  a 
whopper. 

"  I  don't  suppose  for  a  moment  that  you  are  a 
Caruso,"  he  says  rather  nastily,  "  but  I  daresay  that 
you  could  sing  an  ordinary  song  for  us — *  Let  Me 
Like  a  Soldier  Fall,'  or  *  Drink  To  Me  Only  With 
Thine  Eyes.'  Everybody  sings  those  songs." 

You  get  rather  huffy,  and  tell  your  persecutor 
that  you  do  not  know  one  note  from  another.  He 
seems  to  think  that  positive  proof  that  you  sing.  He 
looks  at  you  somewhat  pitifully,  and  begs  you  to 
remember  the  noble  men  who  have  willingly  lost 
their  lives  for  your  comfort.  It  is  for  their  orphans 
that  he  asks  you  to  sing.  Then  you  say  that  it  is 
just  because  you  are  so  grateful  to  these  men  that 
you  refuse  to  injure  their  helpless  orphans  by  maim- 
ing them  with  your  voiced 

"A    little    piano- 
forte    solo?"     he 
suggests,  not  to  be 
put  down  by  clam-    Jjj 
our. 

He  is  very  indig- 
nant when  you  fight 
shy  of  this.  Once 
when  you  were  a 
laughing  lad  you 
used  to  play  "Lil- 
la's  Lady,"  "Hay- 


224  The  Great  Wet  Way 

dn's  Hymn  to  the  Emperor,"  and  "The  Swiss 
Boy,"  but  nobody  induced  you  to  continue.  In  fact, 
you  have  mercifully  forgotten  even  those  chaste 
melodies. 

"  It's  too  bad,"  he  says  testily.  "  If  everybody  is 
as  apathetic  as  you  are,  we  shall  have  no  concert. 
The  Captain  particularly  begged  me  to  organise  this 
entertainment "  (he  had  particularly  begged  the  Cap- 
tain to  allow  him  to  organise  it),  "and  I  hate  to 
be  worsted.  Well,  if  you  won't  sing  or  play  for 
us,  you  can  at  least  make  an  address — a  good  stir- 
ring, eloquent  address." 

"What  about?"  you  murmur,  with  sinking  heart. 

"Oh,  the  Liverpool  orphans,"  he  says.  "Poor 
little  things  I " 

Now,  the  Liverpool  orphans  cannot  be  "  little 
things."  I  have  known  them  for  twenty  years,  and 
even  orphans  grow  in  twenty  years.  They  must 
be  big,  and  married,  with  orphans  of  their  own,  by 
this  time.  I  mention  this.  He  says  I  am  unfeeling, 
flippant,  heartless,  and  he  is  not  angry,  but  grieved. 
With  some  sort  of  compunction — I  know  not  why 
—I  volunteer  to  go  round  with  him,  and  see 
if  I  can  help  him  in  any  way  with  the  others. 
Let  me  describe  a  typical  talent-hunt  with  the 
hustler. 

The  ship  has  "got  wind"  of  the  contemplated 
concert,  and  the  figures  on  the  steamer-chairs,  that 
look  like  the  Kings  and  Queens  on  the  tombs  of 


The  Concert  225 

Westminster  Abbey,  are  greatly  interested.  They 
move  to  the  occasion — not  being  strong  enough  to 
rise.  Many  of  the  passengers  cherish  a  very  em- 
phatic desire  to  be  asked  to  "  do  something  "  for  the 
concert.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  never  any 
difficulty  in  organising  the  concert.  "Talent" 
lurks  in  the  most  unexpected  places,  and  talent  is  in- 
clined to  assert  itself. 

We  approach  the  inevitable  New  England  spin- 
ster, who  sees  us  coming,  and  straightens  herself  up 
to  meet  us.  She  is  very  thin,  and  yellow,  and  nasal. 
Her  face  is  enveloped  in  a  gauze  veil,  tightly 
stretched,  and  she  is  always  twitching  her  upper  lip, 
to  free  it  from  the  embracing  gauze — not  the  sort 
of  embrace  that  appeals  to  her. 

She  simpers  a  little  as  she  reluctantly  informs  us 
that  she  can  do  something  for  us,  though  she  de- 
spises publicity.  She  is  not  quite  sure  about  her 
voice  on  the  ocean  (I  am— both  on  the  ocean  and 
off),  but  she  can  try.  And  she  can  practise  in  the 
saloon  between  now  and  the  concert  day.  She  would 
like  to  sing,  "  Oh,  That  We  Two  Were  Maying," 
but  of  course — with  some  more  simper — she  will 
need  somebody  to  "  may  "  with.  She  cannot  "  may  " 
alone.  Also,  she  would  prefer  to  "  may "  with  a 
gentleman.  Can  we  find  one  for  her?  If  so,  she 
will  consent  to  appear. 

It  will  be  no  easy  matter  unearthing  a  "  gentle- 
man "  willing  to  "  may  "  with  this  particular  damsel. 


226 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


In  fact,  I  refuse  at  first  to  be  party  to  any  such  mean 
trick.  But  there  is  a  youth  with  an  enormous  voice 
who  has  been  singing  in  the  saloon  ever  since  we  left 
port — and  who  must  have  come  on  board  for  the 
express  purpose  of  singing.  We  corner  him,  and 

ask  him  if  he  knows 
"  Oh,  That  We  Two 
:>Were  Maying."  Of 
course  he  does.  He 
has  known  it  for  years. 
It  is  very  pretty,  is  it 

,,. ,  not  ?  There  is  a  rhythm 

'/I  i 

///yto  it  that  is  exquisite. 

ly'  Sung  in  the  gloaming, 
it  is  delicious.  Have  we  ever  heard  it  sung  in  the 
gloaming? 

I  whisper  to  the  hustler,  that,  after  all,  it  is  rather 
"  low  down  "  to  hurl  the  New  England  spinster  at 
this  lad.  He  has  never  done  us  any  harm.  But 
the  hustler  says  "  Liverpool  orphans  "  and  I  am  in- 
stantly crushed.  So  be  it. 

"  There's  a  very  charming  young  lady  on  board — 
from  Massachusetts,"  says  the  hustler,  "  and  she 
sings  *  Oh,  That  We  Two  Were  Maying ' — or  will 
do  so,  if  you  will  sing  it  with  her.  Will  you?  It  is 
for  the  benefit  of  the  Liverpool  orphans,  you  know." 

I  long  to  cry  "  Pause !  "  and  give  the  poor  wretch 
a  chance,  but  the  hustler  digs  me  in  the  ribs,  and  I 
am  silenced.  The  singer's  name  is  inscribed.  He 


"They  sang,  'Oh,  that  we  two  were  maying' 


The  Concert 


227 


will  chant  "  Oh,  That  We  Two  Were  Maying"  with 
the  New  England  spinster.    He  will  get  his ! 

An  English  matron  who  wears  ear-rings,  a  neck- 
lace, bangles,  a  locket,  rings  and  other  jewels  of 
marked  insincerity,  tells  us  that  she  sings  "  Dear 
Heart,"  "In 
Sweet  S  e  p  t  e  m- 
ber,"  and  "  Beau- 
ty's Eyes."  She 
has  a  large  reper- 
toire of  Hope 
Temple,  and  Tos- 
ti.  Do  we  know 
Tosti's  "  Good- 
Bye"?  The  hus- 
tler doesn't,  and 
I  wonder  how  the 
hustler  has  es- 
caped. Tosti  has 
said  more  good- 
byes than  Patti. 

The  hustler  appears  to  have  an  emphatic  prefer- 
ence for  coon  songs.  He  is  an  American  from 
Grand  Rapids,  Mich.,  and  is  "  travelling  for  fur- 
niture." The  English  matron,  however,  turns  up 
her  nose  at  the  mere  mention  of  coon  songs.  She 
will  not  pander  to  such  a  low  taste.  On  board  ship 
the  Englishwomen  all  sing  sentimental  ballads  of 
funereal  import — ballads  that  deal  with  violets 


228  The  Great  Wet  Way 

wreathed  on  their  graves,  and  with  lost  loves  laid 
to  rest  'neath  the  daffodils  in  the  village  church- 
yard. The  American  women  warble  rag-time,  and 
have  a  splendid  assortment  of  Honolulu  Susies,  and 
Mandies,  and  Daisies,  and  Anastasia  Browns  to 
offer.  In  the  British  Isles  you  despise  ballads,  and 
clamour  for  coon  songs;  in  the  United  States,  you 
loathe  coon  songs,  and  hanker  for  ballads ;  on  board 
ship,  you  get  both,  and  are  still  not  happy. 

There  is  a  college  professor  on  the  ship,  and  the 
hustler  tells  me  that  a  "  serious  "  reading,  or  some- 
thing of  that  sort,  would  be  very  valuable.  The 
professor  is  sitting,  poring  over  a  book,  as  we  march 
up  to  him.  He  has  many  whiskers,  and  much  dig- 
nity, but  the  hustler  has  no  qualms  at  all.  He  prides 
himself  on  his  "push";  most  travellers  do.  What 
we  call  "  cheek  "  they  label  "  push."  The  professor 
listens  to  our  tale  of  woe;  we  rush  him  into  the 
midst  of  the  Liverpool  orphans.  The  concert  is 
now  "  assuming  gigantic  proportions,"  according  to 
the  hustler.  It  will  be  a  stupendous  thing.  It  will 
be  something  to  remember  for  the  rest  of  our  lives. 
All  who  have  taken  part  in  it  will  love  to  recall  that 
fact  in  future  years.  And  the  Liverpool  orphans 
will  fatten  on  it — if  they  are  not  already  so  fat  that 
increased  flesh  would  end  their  earthly  career. 

"Well,"  says  the  professor,  in  staccato  delibera- 
tion, "  if  I  can  help  you,  of  course,  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted. Let  me  see  " — reflectively — "  if  you  like, 


The  Concert 


229 


I  could  give  you  a  nice  little  chat  about  *  The  Ru- 
baiyat'  of  Omar  Khayyam,  with  selections " 

"The  what?"  cries  the  hustler,  apparently  par- 
alysed. 

The  professor  repeats  it.  "  I  have  my  own  ideas 
about  Omar  Khayyam,"  he  says,  "and  I  fancy  I 
could  make  it  light  and  interesting.  It  is  a  charm- 


230  The  Great  Wet  Way 

ing  subject.  Of  course,  I  do  not  insist.  Still,  I 
think  that  perhaps  my  fellow-passengers  will  enjoy 
Omar  Khayyam." 

"Who  is  he?"  queries  the  hustler,  perplexed. 
Then  turning  to  me:  "Have  you  ever  heard  of 
him?" 

It  is  mean  of  me,  but  I  cannot  help  it;  it  is  con- 
temptible and  unworthy,  but  I  decide  that  no  light 
shall  be  shed  upon  the  mystery  of  Omar  Khayyam, 
by  me.  So  I  look  puzzled,  and  a  trifle  suspicious, 
and — the  professor  looks  amazed,  as  well  he  might. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  say  it's  all  right,  Professor," 
continues  the  hustler  dejectedly,  "  it  must  be.  I  take 
it  that  you  mean  to  give  us  a  recitation.  One  thing 
I'll  ask  you.  You  must  excuse  me.  I  suppose  that 
this  Homer  What's-his-name  is — er — moral — the 
sort  of  thing  that  is  fit  for  ladies  ?  Oh  " — as  the 
professor  makes  a  motion  expressive  of  rising  indig- 
nation— "  for  myself,  I  don't  care.  For  this  gentle- 
man " — pointing  to  me — "  I  don't  care.  But  we 
have  our  wives,  and  daughters,  and  mothers  on 
board,  and  we  cannot  take  too  many  precautions. 
Still,  if  you  assure  me,  Professor " 

The  professor  by  this  time  has  gauged  the  lit- 
erary measure  of  the  hustler.  He  is  amused,  but 
he  is  also  annoyed.  He  resumes  his  book  with 
quiet  dignity,  remarks  that  he  is  sorry  he  is  too  busy 
to  take  part  in  the  concert,  hopes  all  sorts  of  pleasing 
results  for  the  Liverpool  orphans,  and  dismisses  us  I 


The  Concert 


231 


"  I  put  my  foot  in  it  that  time,"  says  the  hustler, 
"but  I  can't  help  it.  Suppose  that  Homer  thing 
turned  out  to  be  some  improper,  problem  affair — 
like  a  good  many  modern  plays!  Who  would  be 
responsible?  Why,  I.  He  seems  like  a  sober  chap, 
but  I  cannot  announce  anything  I  do  not  under- 
stand. If  he  had  suggested  *  The  Face  on  the  Bar- 
room Floor,'  or  *  Poker  Flat,'  or  something  of  that 
sort!  I  am  sorry  to  have  hurt  his  feelings,  but  I 
am  convinced  that  I  did  the  right  thing." 

"So  there's  to  be  a  concert,"  exclaims  a  heavily- 
coated  lady,  interrupting  us.  "  I  thought  I'd  tell 
you  that  if  you  are  looking  for  talent  my  little  girl 
would  be  glad  to  oblige.  She  is  only  eight  years  old, 
but  she  plays  a  dementi  sonatina  and  '  Valse  Favour- 
ite* beautifully.  Some  say  that  she  is  quite  a  prod- 
igy, but  I  won't  go  as  far  as  that.  Come  here,  Joy, 
and  tell  the  gentle- 
men what  you  can 
do." 

Joy  looks  much 
more  like  Woe.  She 
is  one  of  those  ter- 
r  i  b  1  e,  ship-board 
children  who  have 
their  hair  cut  "  Bus- 
ter Brown,"  wear 
blue  serge,  and  quar- 
rel all  day  long  with  $,MS 


232  The  Great  Wet  Way 

their  contemporaries.  Joy  says  she  hasn't  practised, 
and  has  forgotten  how  to  play.  To  which  mommer 
replies  that  she  is  a  naughty  girl.  Thereupon,  Joy 
insists  that  Signer  Jenkins,  her  instructor  in  New 
York,  has  told  her  not  to  play  before  people.  Mom- 
mer is  furious.  She  informs  us  that  she  pays  ten 
dollars  a  lesson  to  Signer  Jenkins,  and  that  Joy  is 
going  to  be  a  wonder.  She  is  particularly  anxious 
for  the  Captain  to  hear  her.  Joy  is  in  tears  by 
this  time.  Mommer  threatens  her  with  instant  bed, 
and  no  candies  for  six  months.  The  scene  has  be- 
come intensely  emotional,  and  we  drift  away. 

Another  fond  parent,  of  the  feminine  persuasion, 
buttonholes  us.  She,  too,  has  a  sweet  little  daughter 
who  dances  exquisitely.  For  years  she  has  been  to 
"  dancing  school "  in  all  its  enormities,  and  it  is, 
quite  likely  that  she  will  eventually  become  a  profes- 
sional. "  Her  father  is  dead  against  it,"  declares 
the  matron.  "  He  sulks  when  it  is  mentioned.  But 
what  is  one  to  do  with  such  talent?  A  pity  to  let 
it  go  to  waste !  So  I  tell  Pa  not  to  be  foolish,  and 
to  let  Malvina  go  ahead.  She  may  be  able  to  sup- 
port us  in  luxury — he!  he!  he! — in  our  old  age." 

The  hustler  is  much  interested.  A  dance  will  vary 
the  monotony  of  the  bill,  the  star  features  of  which, 
at  present,  seem  to  be  "  Oh,  That  We  Two  Were 
Maying,"  and  some  English  ballads. 

"The  last  time  our  Malvina  danced,"  continues 
mommer,  "  was  at  Mr.  Callahan's  Dancing  School 


The  Concert  233 

in  One-Hundred-and-Twenty-Fifth  Street,  and  may 
be  she  didn't  go  big !  She  did  one  of  them  '  Salome  ' 
dances,  imitating  Gertrude  Hoffman  and  Eva  Tan- 
guay.  My !  She  didn't  do  a  thing  to  them !  " 

The  hustler  straightens  himself  up.  "  No  *  Sa- 
lome '  dances  for  mine,"  he  says.  "  They  would 
object  to  that  sort  of  thing  here.  It  may  be  all  right 
in  New  York,  where  people  are  sensational  and  friv- 
olous, but  on  board  an  ocean-liner — perhaps  little 
Malvina  will  do  some  other  dance  for  us." 

Mommer  is  much  chagrined.  She  has  brought 
Malvina's  "  Salome "  costume  with  her  on  board, 
knowing  that  there  would  be  a  concert,  and  a  chance 
for  the  sweet  little  thing  to  display  her  marvellous 
gifts.  Mommer  is  quite  upset.  Still,  Malvina  has 
another  dance,  a  most  elaborate  and  complicated  af- 
fair, that  it  took  her  months  to  acquire.  She  made  a 
great  hit  in  it  at  Mr.  Callahan's  Carnival.  It  is 
much  finer  than  any  of  the  work  of  Isadora  Duncan, 
though  of  the  same  trend. 

The  hustler  is  happy.  He  proposes  to  book  Mal- 
vina. 

"The  concert  will  take  place  in  the  saloon?" 
queries  mommer.  "  That  is  most  important." 

"  It  certainly  will,"  replies  the  hustler  imperiously, 
as  though  the  ship  were  his. 

"  It  will  be  necessary  to  have  all  the  tables  and 
chairs  removed,"  asserts  Malvina's  parent.  "  The 
child  will  need  all  the  space  she  can  get,  and  more. 


234  The  Great  Wet  Way 

Her  pirouettes  are  astonishing.  Unless  you  promise 
that  every  chair  and  table  shall  be  taken  away,  I 
cannot  consent  to  let  my  Malvina  appear.  She  might 
injure  herself." 

The  hustler  laughs  rather  rudely.  "Why,  Ma- 
dame," he  says,  "  all  those  tables  and  chairs  are 
screwed  down.  They  can't  be  moved.  It  would  be 
utterly  impossible." 

"  Nonsense  1  "  exclaims  the  matron  heatedly.  "  In 
half  an  hour  the  sailors  could  unscrew  every  bit  of 
furniture  in  the  dining-room.  It  is  an  occasion,  a 
great  occasion,  and  the  Captain  will  give  you  every 
facility.  He  always  does.  Imagine  my  Malvina 
doing  a  classical  dance  dodging  chairs  and  tables. 
Well,  I  guess  not!  " 

"  The  lady  is  quite  right,"  I  say  maliciously  to  the 
hustler.  "I  feel  sure  that  the  Captain  will  agree  to 
the  clearance  of  the  saloon.  He  has  a  big  crew, 
idling  their  time  away — loafing,  smoking,  and  talk- 
ing. He  will  be  glad  of  the  chance  to  set  them  to 
work.  They  have  done  nothing  since  they  left  port. 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  risk  little  Malvina's  discom- 
fiture." 

The  hustler  glares  at  me  stonily.  He  reckons  on 
my  aid,  and  I  have  deserted  him.  He  is  alone,  with 
Malvina's  mommer,  figuratively  speaking.  The 
situation  is  unpleasant. 

"  /  will  see  the  Captain,  if  you  prefer  it,"  says  the 
lady.  "  He  is  always  very  nice  to  me.  My  brother- 


The  Concert 


235 


in-law's  cousin  crossed  with  him  last  trip,  and  we 
have  grown  very  friendly.  I'll  ask  him  about  re- 
moving the  chairs  and  tables,  and  I'll  let  you  know 
what  he  says." 

So  the  hustler  erases  Malvina's  name  from  the 
galaxy  of  talent,  and  we  pursue  our  way,  sadder  and 
wiser  men.  There  is  nothing  like  a  conflict  with  tal- 
ent, in  mid-Atlantic,  to  chill  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
too-enthusiastic.  After  this,  we  visit  many  people,  all 
freighted  with  heaven-bestowed  gifts.  A  young  man, 
who  has  "  ribbon  department "  all  over  him,  prom- 
ises to  oblige  us  with  a  reading  from  Charles  Dick- 
ens. It  will  be  from  "  Oliver  Twist " 
or  "Nicholas  Nickleby."  He  used 
to  read  from  "The  Pickwick  Pa- 
pers," but  he  felt  that  such  humour 
was  too  trivial.  He  would  give  us 
the  scene  between  Bill  and  Nancy 
Sykes,  or  the  Death  of  Smike.  The 
hustler  would  have  preferred  some- 
thing jollier,  he  says,  but  he  is  satis- 
fied. Beggars  cannot  be  choosers. 

An  anaemic-looking  curate,  with  a 
most  blotchy  face,  volunteers  "The 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade,"  which 
even  the  hustler  has  heard  before.  His 
face  brightens  as  he  discovers  this  literary  resting- 
place  for  the  sole  of  his  foot.  He  knows  "  The 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  "  as  "  the  thing  they 


236  The  Great  Wet  Way 

always  recite  at  concerts."  It  gladdens  his  heart. 
No  concert,  on  board  ship,  is  worthy  of  its  name  and 
its  reputation  without  "  The  Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade." 

The  banjo-soloist  flourishes  in  mid-Atlantic.  Usu- 
ally the  most  imposing  looking  persons  on  the 
steamer  are  banjo-soloists.  You  would  scarcely  have 
dared  to  suspect  them  of  it.  Their  appearance  would 
suggest  that  their  specialty  might  be  some  beautiful 
anthem  work  on  the  organ,  or  perhaps  a  chaste  dal- 
liance with  the  violincello.  Not  at  all;  they  are 
banjo-soloists.  They  glory  in  it.  Their  banjos  are 
on  board  pining  to  be  twanged.  They  have  a  reper- 
toire of  awe-inspiring  rag-time.  All  they  need  is  an 
accompanist.  We  have  no  trouble  in  securing  banjo 
solos.  We  could  fill  an  entire  programme  with  them. 
They  are  the  musical  weeds  of  the  ocean  steamship's 
concert,  and  grow  apace. 

The  work  of  organising  the  ship's  concert  never 
varies.  Nor  does  the  ship's  concert.  In  the  above 
sketch  of  the  typical  quest  for  steamship  entertain- 
ment I  have  omitted  the  search  for  a  chairman, 
which  is  very  edifying.  It  seems  cruel  to  class  a 
chairman  among  "  talent."  The  hustler  endeavours 
to  pounce  upon  somebody  of  importance  for  this 
office,  and  has  considerable  difficulty,  for  there  are  a 
great  many  people  who  think  that  they  are  of  im- 
portance. There  are  generally  a  number  of  gentle- 
men passenger-listed  as  "  Colonel,"  or  "  General,"  or 


The  Concert  237 

"  Honourable."  Then  there  is  a  sprinkling  of  "  Doc- 
tors " — a  somewhat  abused  title  adopted  by  chiropo- 
dists, manicurists,  dentists,  and  tonsorial  artists. 

"  Colonel,"  however,  is  always  impressive,  and  the 
hustler  easily  gets  one,  whom  he  instructs  in  his 
duties.  He  must  make  a  few  remarks  of  a  pathetic 
nature,  eulogising  the  Liverpool  orphans,  and  bring- 
ing home  the  charity  to  the  hearts  of  the  passengers. 
Then  he  must  introduce  the  various  artists,  and  utter 
a  few  pungent  suggestions  about  the  collection. 
Sometimes  the  "  Colonel "  happens  to  be  one  of 
those  prosy  old  things  who,  once  let  loose,  decline 
all  fastenings.  I  have  known  the  "Colonel"  to 
speak  for  so  long,  that  we  thought  we  should  sight 
Sandy  Hook  before  he  had  finished.  We  were  un- 
able to  choke  him  off.  We  coughed.  We  jingled 
coins.  We  were  unduly  obstreperous.  But  he 
closed  his  "  few  remarks "  only  when  his  voice 
gave  out. 

The  "  introductions "  are  not  the  least  amusing 
part  of  the  ship's  concert.  The  chairman  feels  in- 
clined to  rhapsodise,  sometimes  unduly. 

"  We  shall  now  listen  to  that  delightful,  to  that 
world-famous,  to  that  ever-moving  duet,  *  Oh,  That 
We  Two  Were  Maying,'  "  he  says  eloquently;  "  Miss 
Snooks  of  Massachusetts,  and  Mr.  Pumstock  of 
Cohoes,  who  will  interpret  this  lovely  song,  are,  as 
I  am  sure  you  will  recognise  when  you  have  heard 
them,  artists  of  exceptional  ability.  It  will  be  a  great 


238 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


privilege  to  listen  to  them.     I  beg  to  introduce  you 
to  Miss  Snooks  and  Mr.  Pumstock." 

After  which  we  are  usually  in  for  it.  Miss 
Snooks  is  nervous,  and  Mr.  Pumstock  isn't.  The 
accompanist  is  uncertain,  and  miserable.  Some- 
times the  ship  lurches  while  Miss  Snooks  is  in  the 
very  midst  of  her  "  maying,"  and  Mr.  Pumstock 
glares  at  her,  as  she  spoils  his  best  effort. 

With  "  The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  "  the 
chairman  is  always  at  home.  "  This,"  he  says,  "  the 
work  of  that  mystic  poet,  the  divine  Tennyson,  needs 
no  comment.  It  speaks  for  itself.  Its  rhythm  is  one 
of  its  most  beautiful  features.  Many  of  you  have 
heard  it  before.  Many  of  you  may  hear  it  again. 
It  has  lived,  and  it  will  live.  I  have  much  pleasure 
in  introducing  to  you  my  young  friend,  Mr.  Bore. 
If  Tennyson  were  alive,  I  am  sure  that  he  would 

love  to  hear  Mr.  Bore 
recite  his  wonderful 
poem." 

Tennyson — lucky  poet 
— is  not  alive.  We  are. 
Some  of  us  scarcely  in- 
dulge in  the  sentiments 
that  the  chairman  has 
anticipated.  Mr.  Bore 
is  always  the  same,  on 
any  line.  The  Cunard 
version  of  "  The  Charge 


The  Concert  239 

of  the  Light  Brigade  "  is  quite  identical  with  that 
of  the  American  or  Atlantic  transport  lines. 

The  artists  all  look  very  coy  and  self-conscious 
as  they  are  reviewed  by  the  chairman.  It  is  a  great 
moment  in  their  lives.  They  probably  save  their 
programmes,  and  many  years  hence  will  tell  proudly 
of  the  time  "  when  I  sang  in  public,  my  dear,  and 
was  spoken  of  as  one  of  the  finest  artists  of  the  day." 
They  are  always  willing  to  give  as  many  encores  as 
they  can  crowd  in.  The  encores  resemble  those  that 
occur  in  New  York  at  the  "  first  night "  production 
of  a  comic  opera.  If  the  audience  happens  to  cough, 
back  comes  the  artist,  convinced  that  it  is  an  encore. 
So  it  is  on  board  ship.  Every  song  produces  more 
of  its  kind — no  matter  how  exhausting  the  kind. 
The  audience  is  invariably  delighted.  The  women 
have  donned  their  best  bibs  and  tuckers,  and  the 
men,  all  combed  and  shining  for  the  great  event, 
wear  a  look  of  Sunday  rest.  They  always  wonder 
where  the  Captain  is.  I  never  do.  I  know.  Cap- 
tains have  got  to  live  their  lives,  which  are  not  lives 
of  art — steamship  concert  art.  We  hope  to  get  into 
port  some  day,  if  the  prolix  old  chairman  will  ever 
stop  talking — and  so  there  is  no  use  wondering  where 
the  Captain  is.  Possibly  he  is  singing  "  Oh,  That 
We  Two  Were  Maying  "  with  the  purser. 

The  collection  reminds  one  of  church.  Lovely 
girls  pass  plates  around,  and  the  passengers  drop  in 
their  coins — doing  it  quickly,  so  that  the  coins  shall 


240 


The  Great  Wet  Way 


immediately  mingle  with  the  contents  of  the  plate, 
and  tell  no  tales!  Nobody  wants  his  right  hand  to 
know  what  his  left  hand  has  been  doing — for  the 
Liverpool  orphans!  When  this  weighty  business 
has  been  transacted,  there  is  a  lull  in  the  storm.  The 
amateurs  pause,  anxious  to  know  what  their  efforts 
have  produced — the  exact  pecuniary  value  of,  "  Oh, 
That  We  Two  Were  Maying,"  etcetera. 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  says  the  chairman  at 
last — his  voice  is  grave  and  sonorous — "  I  have 
much  pleasure  in  announcing  that  we  have  collected 
the  splendid  sum  of  $43.22  "  (it  is  generally  a  sum 
that  sounds  like  a  dry-goods  price — $43.22  reduced 
from  $45)  "and  this  sum  will  make  many  dear 
little  orphans  happy.  It  has  been  a  most  successful 

and  enjoyable  concert. 
We  shall  never  forget 
it.  I  should  also  like 
to  say  that  Mrs.  Thin- 
gamy, our  generous 
friend  from  Chicago, 
who  was  not  well 
enough  to  attend  the 
concert,  has  just  sent 
down  a  two-dollar  bill. 
That  makes  our  total 
$45.22  —  an  excellent 
total." 

There    is    nearly    al- 


The  Concert  241 

ways  some  Mrs.  Thingamy  whose  generosity  is  ad- 
vertised so  pleasingly,  and  whose  contribution 
receives  the  chairman's  eulogy.  We,  who  have 
popped  in  a  secluded  "  quarter,"  feel  duly  impressed 
by  the  lavish  and  reckless  amount  vouchsafed  by 
Mrs.  Thingamy.  But  her  love  for  the  Liverpool 
orphans  is  well  known.  She  has  mentioned  it  to 
many  people  on  deck.  She  is  also  a  wise  woman,  for 
she  is  never  well  enough  to  appear  at  the  concert. 
Her  love  for  the  Liverpool  orphans  is  perhaps  not 
strong  enough  to  submit  to  that  test. 

After  the  concert  there  is  a  cold  collation.  The 
ship  "  treats."  There  is  lemonade,  and  cake,  and 
sandwiches,  and  other  delicacies  of  the  church- 
sociable  brand.  We  all  chat  with  the  artists,  and 
fondly  congratulate  them.  Airy  felicitations  of  this 
ilk  are  hard: 

"  Really,  it  was  a  most  delightfully  arranged 
affair!"  ' 

"That  song  of  yours,  Miss  Snooks,  was  a  gem. 
'Even  on  board  ship  one  could  appreciate  the  quality 
of  your  voice.  Has  Hammerstein  heard  you?" 

"How  splendidly  you  read  Smike's  death  from 
1  Nicholas  Nickleby,'  Mr.  Jones.  You  seemed  to 
feel  it  all.  What  an  art  I  " 

"  You  carried  us  away  with  your  *  Charge  of  the 
Light  Brigade,'  Mr.  Bore.  What  a  sweet  thing  it  is 
when  properly  recited.  Of  course  it  can  be  ruined!  " 

"Honestly,   we   wept  at  your  song,   'Take   Me 


242  The  Great  Wet  Way 

Home  To  Mother,'  and  '  Let  Me  Die,'  Miss  Green. 
It  was  so  appealing,  and — oh,  your  voice  is  perfect." 

"  Mrs.  Smith,  that  child  of  yours  is  a  genius.  It 
will  stamp  itself  upon  the  age.  I  have  never  heard 
1  The  Maiden's  Prayer '  more  astoundingly  exe- 
cuted!" 

And  then  we  go  to  bed,  having  done  our  duty  by 
the  Liverpool  orphans.  The  hustler  says  that  he 
can  sympathise  with  any  impresario.  Hammerstein 
can  have  his  Manhattan  Opera  House.  Still,  he 
feels  highly  gratified  at  the  results  of  the  concert. 
It  was  entirely  due  to  the  artists.  No,  he  refuses  to 
take  the  slightest  credit  to  himself. 


XII 


THE    CUSTOM   HOUSE 

N  extraordinary,  an  appar- 
ently inexplicable  change 
comes  o'er  the  spirit  of  the 
home-steering  American  as 
the  pure  ozone  of  the  atmos- 
phere becomes  faintly  charged 
with  the  exhilarating  flavour 
of  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  It 
looms  like  a  cloud,  at  first  no 
bigger  than  a  man's  hand,  and  gradually  assumes 
portentous  shape.  The  careless  observer  believes 
that  the  end  of  a  merry  holiday  has  cast  its  shadow 
before ;  that  the  prospect  of  "  settling  down  " — al- 
ways a  grim  and  an  unlovely  proceeding — is  the 
wet-blanket  that  appears  to  dampen  the  energies  of 
all  passengers,  especially  those  that  are  feminine. 
The  careless  observer  is  of  course — careless.  Surely 
the  instincts  of  the  most  elementary  patriotism 
would  prevent  these  sulky  and  disagreeable  moods. 
I  assume  invariably  that  every  good  American  is 
bubbling  with  ebullient  joy  at  the  mere  idea  of  once 
more  treading  a  soil  that  is  free  from  the  myths  of 
European  tradition.  Every  good  American  de- 
clares, and  asserts  triumphantly,  that  this  is  indeed 

243 


244  The  Great  Wet  Way 

the  case.  Who  am  I  to  doubt  such  asseverations? 
People  who  have  protested  steadily  all  the  way  over, 
at  food,  lodging,  inhabitants,  customs,  and  govern- 
ments studied  abroad,  must  be  overjoyed  that  their 
ordeal  is  past.  I  insist  upon  believing  that  they  are 
overjoyed,  and  that  no  inducement  would  take  them 
abroad  again — until  the  next  time. 

This  extraordinary,  this  apparently  inexplicable 
change  that  comes  o'er  their  spirits  slowly,  yet  crush- 
ingly,  what  is  it?  This  subtle,  insidious  dread  that 
seems  to  stamp  all  vivacity  from  the  decks  of  the 
ship,  what  does  it  signify,  and  why  does  it  signify 
it?  One  cannot  overlook  it.  It  is  responsible  for 
curious  contradictions  and  singular  inconsistencies 
in  the  behaviour  of  perfectly  practical  people.  Let  us 
study  dispassionately  a  few  instances. 

The  delightful  young  woman  who  has  amused 
everybody  by  her  entertaining  descriptions  of  the 
shops  in  London,  and  Paris,  and  Vienna  is  almost 
unrecognisable  as  we  near  Sandy  Hook.  She  has 
told  us  of  the  funny  experiences  she  had  with  dress- 
makers and  milliners.  She  has  inveighed  against 
the  costliness  of  European  goods,  and  has  insistently 
told  us  that  she  is  returning  home  in  that  impecun- 
ious condition  sometimes  called  "  stony."  She  has 
been  most  chatty  and  communicative,  and  we  have 
laughed  heartily  at  her  quaint  observations. 

The  change  that  comes  o'er  her  is  astonishing.  It 
is  inconceivable.  She  gloomily  announces  that 


The  Custom  House 


245 


though  she  diligently  studied  shopping  methods 
abroad,  she  never  bought  a  thing!  They  tried  to 
persuade  her  to  invest  her  good  money  in  dresses 
and  hats,  but  she  positively  declined.  Why  should 
she  buy  abroad?  Everybody  knows  that  American 
products  are  infinitely  superior.  She  seems  to  have 
developed  very  suddenly  an  undying  hatred  for  all 
European  finery,  and  at  the  same  time  to  have 
changed  from  a  light-hearted  cosmopolitan  to  a 
melancholy  patriot. 

The  matron  who  has  been  intensely  proud  of  the 
souvenirs  she  has  collected  in  foreign  cities,  and  who 


246  The  Great  Wet  Way 

has  assiduously  led  you  to  believe  that  her  expendi- 
tures were  enormous,  loses  all  the  gay  bravado  of 
her  humour  as  the  chart  indicates  a  proximity  to 
Sandy  Hook.  She  admits  that  her  purchases  were 
foolish  trifles,  scarcely  worth  padding  her  trunk 
with,  and  she  goes  so  far  as  to  specify  that  her  en- 
tire outlay  was  "  under  a  hundred  dollars."  The 
passengers  are  incredulous.  The  lady  has  worn  con- 
spicuously splendid  chains  of  light  pink  corals  from 
Venice,  and  beautiful  specimens  of  silver  filigree 
from  Genoa.  The  value  of  these  things  that,  at  the 
Lizard,  ran  into  the  thousands  of  dollars,  suddenly 
shrink,  in  the  vicinity  of  Sandy  Hook,  to  "  under  a 
hundred  dollars."  There  is  a  slump,  compared 
with  which  the  fluctuations  of  Wall  Street  are  mere 
trifles. 

The  gay  young  man  who  has  worn  two  different 
suits  of  clothes  every  day,  and  who  has  been  very 
confiding  on  the  subject  of  the  durability  of  English 
cloth,  suddenly  appears  garbed  in  unmistakable 
New  York.  His  naughty,  unpatriotic  sentiments 
have  vanished — melted  into  thin  air.  He  says  that 
New  York  tailors  are  good  enough  for  him.  He 
has  been  all  over  the  world,  and  has  never  discov- 
ered any  sartorial  artists  who  can  cut  clothes  as  they 
cut  them  in  New  York.  Many  people  imagine  that 
he  buys  his  clothes  abroad.  It  is  ridiculous.  They 
simply  do  not  understand  how  to  build  clothes  in 
Europe.  Perhaps  London  cloth  lasts  longer.  Just 


The  Custom  House  247 

perhaps.  But  New  York  is  the  greatest  city  in  the 
universe  for  clothes  that  are  elegant  and  personal. 
Abroad,  clothes  are  impersonal.  The  gay  young 
man  seems  nervous  and  "not  himself." 

The  pretty  girl  who  attracted  so  much  attention 
at  the  concert  by  the  exquisite  evening  gown  that  she 
wore — a  gown  that  had  "  Paris  "  marked  all  over 
it — and  who  told  all  enquirers  that  she  had  several 
others  even  nicer  in  the  hold  of  the  ship,  wears  the 
look  of  the  hunted  antelope  as  the  steamer  nears  her 
destination.  She  is  clad  in  a  simple  shirt-waist  and 
skirt,  and  she  appears  at  dinner  in  one  of  those  pleas- 
ant little  American  blouses  that  one  sees  in  New 
York  marked  "  four  ninety-eight,  reduced  from  six- 
fifty."  She  is  from  Scranton,  Pa.,  and  she  tells 
everybody  what  splendid  dressmakers  they  have  in 
Scranton,  Pa.  Honestly,  it  would  have  been  ludi- 
crous for  her  to  buy  anything  in  Paris  and  Vienna. 
She  saw  nothing  there  to  compare  with  the  "  crea- 
tions "  she  could  always  find  in  Scranton,  Pa. 

The  trusting  and  loquacious  individual  in  the 
smokeroom  who,  on  cold  days,  has  worn  a  fur  over- 
coat that  nobody  but  European  royalty  or  American 
bad  actors  would  dare  to  wear,  and  who  has  thought- 
lessly displayed  the  label  inside,  under  your  very 
eyes,  becomes  very  pensive  as  the  trip  nears  its  end. 
He  asks  you  pathetically  if  you  think  he  ought  to 
"  declare  " — a  pair  of  shoes  he  bought  in  Europe. 

"  You  see,  I  was  there  for  four  months,"  he  says 


248  The  Great  Wet  Way 

diffidently,  "  and  shoes  do  wear  out.  I  tramped! 
about  a  good  deal,  and  finally  bought  some  new 
shoes.  Nothing  else  whatsoever.  Now,  is  it  neces- 
sary to  declare  them?  Of  course,  I  am  perfectly 
willing  to  pay  duty  on  them." 

He  has  a  hunted  look  in  his  eyes.  The  fur  over- 
coat is  lying  across  the  seat,  and  the  label,  from 
force  of  habit,  is  ostentatiously  displayed.  You 
solemnly  advise  him  to  declare  his  new  shoes.  After 
all,  it  is  the  best  policy  to  live  up  to  rules  and  regu- 
lations. He  thanks  you  dejectedly,  and  agrees  with 
you.  He  will  declare  the  shoes  at  a  sovereign.  They 
really  cost  a  trifle  less  than  a  sovereign. 

The  "  good  fellow  "  who 
has  been  the  "  life  and  soul  " 
of  the  trip,  and  whose  ex- 
uberant moods  have  made 
him  immensely  popular,  ap- 
pears to  be  one  of  those 
uncanny  people  freighted 
with  a  guilty  secret.  He  has 
been  joviality  personified  all 
the  way  over;  his  ringing 
laughter  was  infectious;  his 
humorous  sallies  were  side- 
splitting. But  as  the  hustle 
and  bustle  that  precede  ar- 
rival are  noted,  he  sits  and 
mopes.  He  button-holes  pas- 


The  Custom  House  249 

sengcrs,  and  asks  them  leading  questions  about  their 
purchases  abroad.  He  is  exceedingly  interested  in 
what  they  bought.  There  is  a  sinister  look  in  his 
eyes  as  he  awaits  their  answers.  His  manner  sug- 
gests that  he  has  "  skipped  "  his  hotel  bill,  or  some- 
thing worse.  He  is  morose,  and  occasionally  cyni- 
cal. He  gives  vent  to  utterances  that  are  distress- 
ingly unpatriotic. 

Says  he:  "What  I  don't  like  about  this  business 
of  getting  back  is  the  Custom  House  treatment. 
They  force  you  to  declare  your  purchases  abroad, 
and  then  go  through  your  trunks  just  the  same.  You 
make  an  oath  and  they  don't  believe  it.  In  no  other 
country  are  you  treated  so  discourteously." 

Of  course  this  is  horrible.  You  hate  to  listen  to 
it.  Sometimes  your  blood  runs  cold  as  you  hear 
perfectly  good  Americans  saying  such  odious  things 
about  an  institution  that  is  almost  honoured  by  tra- 
dition. So  many  of  them  do  it.  They  do  it  altru- 
istically, for  they  have  never  made  any  purchases 
that  could  possibly  inconvenience  them.  They  af- 
fect to  regard  the  Custom  House  as  a  very  trying 
ordeal — goodness  knows  why.  The  only  things  they 
are  bringing  back  with  them  that  they  did  not  take 
over  are  such  articles  as  tooth-brushes,  face-powder, 
collar-buttons,  shoe-laces,  and  very  plain  handker- 
chiefs without  any  incriminating  lace  on  them !  Yet 
these  people  attack  a  benevolent  scheme  most  out- 
rageously. 


250  The  Great  Wet  Way 

In  fact,  the  extraordinary,  the  apparently  inex- 
plicable change  that  comes  o'er  the  spirit  of  the 
home-steering  American  is  due  to  the  Custom 
House.  There  is  no  need  to  make  any  further  mys- 
tery about  it.  It  is  that,  and  it  is  nothing  more.  On 
land  good  Americans  rather  admire  the  Custom 
House.  The  greatness  of  the  country  is  due  to  the 
Custom  House.  The  splendidly  conceived  idea  of 
preventing  thoughtless  citizens  from  frittering  away 
money,  earned  in  America,  on  rapacious  foreigners, 
has  made  the  country  what  it  is.  But  at  sea  they 
are  not  nearly  as  enthusiastic,  or  if  they  are,  they 
keep  their  enthusiasm  to  themselves,  as  a  sentiment 
too  sacred  to  be  expressed  in  vulgar  joy.  Good 
Americans  do  not  look  forward  to  the  Custom 
House,  as  of  course  they  should  do.  They  never 
rejoice  at  the  idea  of  proving  to  extremely  pleasant 
officials  the  sheer  fact  of  their  undying  patriotism. 
When  you  meet  "  politicians  "  on  the  ocean  steamer, 
you  find  them  just  as  lacking  in  proper  affection  for 
that  benign  institution  as  any  of  the  non-politicians. 
Yet  these  men  are  stern  patriots.  They  tell  you  so 
at  dinners  and  meetings,  in  outbursts  of  irrepressible 
eloquence. 

Most  people  are  very  fractious  the  day  before 
they  land.  They  whisper  a  good  deal.  Occasion- 
ally they  seem  to  start  when  a  passenger  whom  they 
have  not  noticed  before,  approaches  them.  They 
look  anxious  and  moody,  haggard  with  secret  cares. 


The  Custom  House  251 

They  have  evidently  drained  the  cup 

of  joy  to  its  dregs,  and  the  dregs  are 

bitter.     They  rarely  talk  about  the 

good  time  that  is  awaiting  them  at 

home,    for  preceding   that   possible 

good    time     there    is    the    Custom 

House    rearing    itself   before    their 

mental  vision.     They  look  upon  the  Custom  House 

as  a  sort  of  stone  wall  through  which  they  must  butt 

their  heads  to  home  and  liberty. 

Passengers  are  seldom  frank  and  trusting.  Your 
very  best  friend  never  tells  you  till  weeks  after  that 
she  had  seventeen  real  lace  handkerchiefs  and  twelve 
pairs  of  gloves,  concealed  about  her  ingenuous  per- 
son. You  feel  rather  hurt  at  this  lack  of  candour, 
especially  as  you  have  boldly  admitted  to  her  that 
you  were  declaring  three  boxes  of  cigarettes.  You 
feel  rather  pleased,  however,  that  you  did  not  ad- 
mit six  boxes  of  cigars  that  somehow  or  other  you 
quite  forgot  to  declare. 

On  one  occasion,  a  lady  who  had  sat  at  our  table 
all  the  way  over,  and  whom  we  had  grown  to  look 
upon  as  the  embodiment  of  fragrant  truth,  almost 
shattered  my  belief  in  the  veracity  of  human  nature. 
She  showed  us  a  list  of  all  the  purchases  she  was  de- 
claring. It  was  in  black  and  white  and  figures.  It 
was  full  of  detail.  She  had  not  forgotten  to  set 
down  a  few  feathers,  some  inexpensive  dress  trim- 
mings, and — if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  it — half  a 


252  The  Great  Wet  Way 

dozen  pairs  of  simple,  unassuming  lisle-thread  stock- 
ings. Honesty  looked  from  her  eyes.  She  really 
seemed  to  love  the  Custom  House.  She  said  that 
she  thought  it  was  fun,  and  a  capital  field  for  the 
study  of  human  nature. 

On  the  dock  I  noticed  that  she  walked  about  a 
good  deal,  and  seemed  unwilling  to  sit  down.  We 
advised  her  to  sit  on  her  trunk,  as  it  was  dreadful 
to  see  her  prowling  about,  tiring  herself  out.  She 
said,  rather  nervously,  that  she  had  been  sitting  for 
a  week,  and  that  it  was  good  to  walk.  Nothing 
would  induce  her  to  take  a  seat.  The  mere  idea 
seemed  repulsive.  We  met  her  outside  the  dock, 
after  the  examination,  as  she  was  stepping  into  a  car- 
riage. She  was  rather  merry. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  I'm  going  to  sit  down,  if  I 
can.  I  say  if  I  can,  because  I  have  twenty  yards  of 
heavy  brocaded  silk  wound  around  me.  Under  these 
circumstances,  you  will  realise  that  it  is  not  easy  to 
rest.  You  nearly  gave  the  show  away  with  your 
ridiculous  politeness.  It  is  a  wonder  that  you  did 
not  notice  how  stout  I  had  grown.  As  soon  as  I 
get  home,  I  shall — bant." 

This  sort  of  thing  destroys  one's  faith  in  human 
nature.  But  it  is  just  as  well  not  to  have  too  much 
faith  in  that  sort  of  nature — at  the  Custom  House. 

"All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here." 

The  end  of  every  trip  to  the  fanciful  observer  is — 
Hell,  or  at  least  Purgatory.  All  those  timid,  fear- 


The  Custom  House  253 

riddled  souls  that  cross  the  gang-plank  of  the  liner 
to  the  ugly,  cold  and  squalid  dock,  where  they  must 
stand,  denuded  of  hyprocrisy,  cant,  mendacity,  and  a 
criminal  love  for  the  wares  of  other  climes,  until  they 
have  atoned,  or  until  their  innocence  is  established, 
seem  like  lost  ones.  Their  material  joys  are  now 
forgotten  in  the  horror  of  expiation.  They  have 
sinned,  and  they  must  pay  the  penalty.  Avenging 
spirits  will  pry  into  the  very  innermost  recesses — of 
their  trunks!  There  can  be  no  escape.  The  wages 
of  sin  is — the  Custom  House. 

"  All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here." 
At  the  Custom  House  all  are  equal.  The  haughty 
ones  and  the  exclusive  ones,  the  posers  and  the 
prattlers,  the  merry  souls  and  the  solemn  souls,  those 
who  have  amused  you  and  those  who  have  bored 
you — all  are  arraigned  at  that  mighty  bar.  The  man 
who  brings  into  the  United  States  nothing  in  the 
world  but  his  tooth-brush  must  hold  it  up  to  the 
gaze  of  relentless  officials.  The  lady  who  has  sworn 
by  her  grandfather's  beard— or  anything  they  want 
her  to  swear  by — that  all  her  beautiful  Paris  gowns 
are  pure  and  unadulterated  New  York,  must  prove 
it.  She  may  have  sewn  a  Siegel-Cooper  lable  on  a 
Doucet  confection.  Of  what  will  it  avail  her?  Noth- 
ing. Her  sin  will  be  unveiled.  This  is  her  purgatory. 
"  All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here." 
But  all  hope  is  not  abandoned.  Staid  yet  eminent 
people  suddenly  acquire  the  actor's  art.  Some  of 


254  The  Great  Wet  Way 

the  very  best  acting  done  outside  of  a  theatre — acting 
that  is  often  on  a  par  with  the  most  excellent  work 
seen  inside  a  theatre — may  be  noticed  on  any  dock 
after  the  arrival  of  a  crowded  steamer. 

The  dame  who  has  snubbed  everybody  all  the  way 
over,  and  whose  boast  it  is  that  she  can  never  be 
amiable  to  people  to  whom  she  has  not  been  prop- 
erly introduced,  acts  the  part  of  a  delightfully  gay 
and  ingenuous  young  person  to  the  Custom  House 
inspector.  She  is  shivering  in  her  shoes  at  certain 
awful  possibilities,  but  as  she  hands  him  her  keys, 
you  would  never  guess  it.  She  is  quite  eager  to  pre- 
sent her  keys.  She  appears  to  have  taken  a  great 
fancy  to  the  Custom  House  inspector  and  to  ask  one 
thing  only :  that  he  explore  her  trunks,  and  see  what 
a  good  girl  is  she.  As  he  possesses  himself  of  the 
keys  she  talks  to  him  in  a  careless  but  perfectly 
friendly  way. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  I'm  not  much  of  a  sinner,"  she 
says  lightly.  "  You  see,  I  cross  so  often  that  I've 
learned  my  lesson.  Why,  I  declare,  it  was  you  who 
went  over  my  trunks  last  year!  Don't  you  remem- 
ber? You  took  a  great  deal  of  trouble,  and  you 
found — nothing.  Surely,  you  remember?  I  told 
you  about  the  theatres  in  Paris,  and  you  seemed  very 
interested." 

There  may  be  a  tremor  in  her  voice,  but  she  is 
really  a  very  good  actress — one  of  those  highly- 
strung  emotional  actresses  who  are  nevertheless  ar 


'Appears  to  take  a  great  fancy  to  the  inspector' 


The  Custom  House 


255 


tists  in  repression.  Though  her  soul  is  racked,  she 
hums  an  air.  She  walks  away  from  the  inspector 
and  chats  gracefully  with  an  adjacent  passenger 
whom  she  has  snubbed  during  the  trip.  This  is  what 
stage  people  call  "  business."  Good  actresses  often 
have  "  business "  with  supernumeraries,  to  whorrt 
they  appear  to  be  telling  the  secrets  of  their  past. 
Yet  she  had  one  eye  on  the  inspector  all  the  time. 
It  is  a  difficult  part  to  play.  She  sees  her  gowns 
plucked  from  the  trunk  and  cast  upon  the  dock. 
She  beholds  all  her  cherished  trifles  rudely  manipu- 
lated by  an  insensate  man.  Yet  she  smiles.  Her 
part  is  to  appear  to  be  enjoying  it  all.  Has  actress 
ever  been  asked  to  simulate  a  more  fiendish  emo- 
tion? 

Many  women  affect  to 
regard  the  inspector  as  a 
sort  of  long-lost  brother. 
As  he  is  assigned  to  the 
task  of  investigating  their 
earthly  goods,  they  heave 
sighs  of  relief.  The  un- 
initiated might  think  that 
they  had  crossed  the 
ocean  just  to  meet  this 
sweet,  inspecting  person. 
They  seem  so  glad  and 
so  happy.  They  have 
nothing  to  conceal,  noth- 


256  The  Great  Wet  Way 

ing  to  fear.  They  are  quite  sure  that  he  must  dislike 
his  job  very  much,  and  they  want  to  help  him.  They 
just  yearn  to  help  him ;  to  make  things  easy  for  him, 
so  that  he  can  get  home  to  his  wife  and  children.  Of 
course  he  has  a  wife  and  children.  That  is  why  he 
is  so  human  and  so  charming.  These  are  the 
women  who  are  so  "uppish"  with  menials,  and  so 
stand-off-ish  with  the  average  mortal.  All  is  changed 
at  the  dock.  They  are  overflowing  with  the  milk  of 
human  kindness. 

"  I've  travelled  all  over  Europe,"  says  the  dowa- 
ger, who  has  just  handed  her  keys  to  the  inspector, 
and  who  looks  as  though  she  would  love  to  slay  him. 
u  I've  been  through  the  Customs  of  Germany, 
France,  Italy,  Hungary,  and  England,  and  I'm 
bound  to  say,  that  for  real  courtesy  and  innate 
chivalry  New  York  beats  them  all.  I  have  never 
had  any  trouble  in  New  York." 

She  smiles  a  slow  and  tortured  smile.  The  in- 
spector is  polite,  but  quite  cold.  He  is  not  inclined 
to  discuss  the  Customs  of  other  countries;  he  is  busy 
enough  with  those  of  his  own.  He  holds  no  brief 
for  chivalry.  He  is  a  man  confronted  with  his  duty, 
and  he  is  there  to  do  it.  The  joyous  remarks  of  the 
dowager  count  for  nothing  at  all.  He  discovers  a 
gown  that  she  has  not  declared.  The  poor  lady  can 
act  no  longer.  Picturesque  indignation,  outraged 
delicacy,  a  wild  and  impassioned  appeal  to  his  better 
nature  take  the  place  of  mere  filigree  frivolity. 


The  Custom  House  257 

"  I  have  worn  that  dress  for  years,"  she  says.  "  It 
is  old.  It  was  not  really  worth  bringing  back.  I  am 
going  to  give  it  to  my  cook,  who  can  always  use  my 
cast-off  clothes." 

The  inspector  has  no  sense  of  humour,  or  if  he  has, 
his  experiences  with  the  vagaries  of  returning  ma- 
trons have  dulled  it.  The  gown  is  decollete,  and  it 
has  a  long,  swishing  train.  Yet  he  does  not  deris- 
ively picture  the  cook  in  her  kitchen  inside  the 
beautiful  dress.  He  does  not  contemptuously  ask  if 
Mary  Jane  always  peels  potatoes  in  "  full  evening 
dress."  The  dowager  rages.  The  chivalry  of  the 
New  York  Customs  is  routed  for  ever.  Henceforth 
she  will  swear  by  Germany,  France,  Italy,  Hungary, 
and  England. 

Efforts  are  made  to  engage  the  ruthless  inspector 
in  the  distracting  joys  of  tea-table  talk.  Anxious 
women  tell  him  pleasant  little  stories.  They  narrate 
pungent  anecdotes  of  the  trip  abroad,  cutting  out 
all  allusions  to  their  experiences  in  the  European 
marts.  They  ask  him  many  questions,  and  are  ex- 
tremely interested  in  the  New  York  weather,  the 
latest  murder  case,  the  newest  play,  and  the  most 
recent  political  developments.  All  the  while  he  is 
churning  up  the  contents  of  trunks.  He  is  stirring 
up  their  good  clothes  as  though  they  were  soup.  He 
is  running  his  hands  along  the  sides  of  the  trunks; 
he  is  lifting  up  carefully  arranged  garments;  he  is 
unfastening  everything  that  is  fastened,  and  he  is 


258  The  Great  Wet  Way 

performing  the  feats  of  a  conjurer  with  innocent 
little  molehills  of  which  he  makes  mountains.  The 
anxious  women  try  to  be  light-hearted.  It  is  up-hill 
work.  The  New  Thought  is  as  impotent  as  the  good 
Old  Thought  to  induce  mental  serenity  and  an  un- 
budging  poise  in  the  Custom  House. 

The  men  are  just  as  distraught — especially  those 
men  who  have  bought  nothing  but  shoe-laces.  One 
wonders  why  they  are  so  dreadfully  nervous  about 
shoe-laces — but  they  are.  Even  if  the  shoe-laces 
were  confiscated,  one  can  obtain  the  article,  at  most 
reasonable  rates,  all  over  the  United  States.  Yet 
their  brows  are  furrowed;  they  are  haggard  and 
lank;  they  seem  to  wish  themselves  at  the  bottom  of 
the  sea — and  all  because  of  those  silly  little  shot- 
laces. 

People  sit  for  hours  on  that  cold  and  clammy 
dock,  waiting  for  their  trunks  to  be  fished  up  from 
the  bowels  of  the  ship.  They  look  miserable  until 
the  trunks  appear,  and  then,  much  more  miserable. 
One  would  think  that  they  would  be  glad  to  see 
faithful  and  long-tried  boxes  that  have  been  hidden 
from  them  for  a  whole  week  in  the  hold  of  the  ship. 
They  want  their  trunks,  of  course,  but  they  seem  to 
hate  the  sight  of  them.  They  have  lost  all  joy  in 
their  treasures.  These  appear  to  be  full  of  Dead 
Sea  fruit — which  is  probably  dutiable. 

At  the  dock  you  hate  all  the  nice  people  with 
whom  you  have  been  so  chummy  all  the  way  across, 


The  Custom  House 


259 


nor  have  you  any  use  for  the  passengers  whom  you 
have  been  most  anxious  to  meet.  Human  nature, 
stripped  of  its  "party  manners,"  confronts  you. 
Men  and  women  who  had  been  so  light-hearted  and 
so  delightful  for  seven  days  are  now  facing  stern 
realities.  You  can  no  longer  lure  them  into  polite 
conversation.  Just  try  it.  Go  and  ask  the  dowager 
whose  silken  underwear  is  being  displayed  to  a  gap- 
ing crowd  if  she  prefers  Guy  de  Maupassant  to 
Balzac.  Question  the  pretty  girl  who  is  vociferously 
declaring  that  certain  brand-new  gowns  are  brand- 
old,  as  to  the  latest  thing  in  "  two-steps."  Ask  the 


260  The  Great  Wet  Way 

apparently  afflicted  father,  who  has  forgotten  to» 
smoke  five  hundred  cigarettes  on  the  trip,  if  he  would 
declare  "no  trumps"  with  one  ace  and  a  guarded 
king.  Endeavour  to  make  polite  conversation  on, 
classical  topics  with  the  college  graduate,  whose 
beautiful  suit  of  London  evening  clothes  is  being 
criticised  by  a  mirthless  menial. 

These  people  who  have  been  so  smiling  and  so 
convivial  will  glare  at  you.  Life  is  real,  life  is  earn- 
est, and  the  Custom  House  is  its  goal.  Especially 
if  you  are  "all  through,"  and  ready  to  sally  forth 
and  enjoy  New  York,  will  they  loathe  you.  They 
are  selfish  people.  Instead  of  rejoicing  at  your  eman- 
cipation, and  throwing  confetti  at  you  as  you  march 
proudly  from  the  dock,  a  free  man  and  a  righteous 
one,  wearing  the  hall-mark  of  the  Custom  House  on 
your  suit  case,  they  seem  to  be  victims  of  the  worst 
emotions — envy,  jealousy,  and  irritating  incredulity. 
Misery  loves  company.  At  the  Custom  House 
everybody  who  "  gets  through  "  is  unwillingly  parted 
with  by  those  who  have  not  "  got  through." 

It  is  galling,  of  course.  People  who  have  been 
righted  in  the  eyes  of  the  Customs  always  look  so 
fiendishly  triumphant.  They  cannot  conceal  their 
joy,  and  make  no  effort  to  do  so.  In  fact,  one  might 
almost  accuse  them  of  wilfully  rubbing  it  in. 

You  sit  wearily  watching  the  inspector  discover 
that  a  dozen  new  collars  were  bought  abroad.  He  io 
quite  right,  for  they  were,  and  you  are  too  tired  to 


The  Custom  House  261 

contradict,  when  a  bouncing  young  thing  rushed  up 
and  says:  "Still  at  it!  We're  all  through.  No 
trouble  at  all.  I  can't  understand  why  people  worry 
themselves  so.  Why,  you'll  be  an  hour  yet.  Our 
inspector  was  a  perfect  dear,  but  of  course,  we  had 
nothing  to  declare." 

How  you  despise  that  girl!  [You  never  want  to 
meet  the  heartless,  unsympathetic  minx  again.  She 
is  so  lively,  and  you  feel  so  depressed. 

Or,  your  room-mate  appears,  and  simply  laughs 
at  your  plight.  You  have  been  very  kind  to  that 
boy.  You  waited  on  him  when  he  was  ill,  and  you 
declined  to  unpack  your  valise  so  that  he  could  have 
more  room  for  his  ridiculous  clothes. 

"  I'm  through!  "  he  says  exultantly.  "The  ordeal 
is  over.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  is  no  ordeal  at  all. 
The  United  States  wants  to  protect  itself.  It  is 
quite  right.  If  unscrupulous  people  will  smuggle, 
then  they  must  expect — whatever  they  get.  You 
seem  to  be  having  a  hard  time  of  it,  old  chap.  Never 
mind.  It  will  all  be  the  same  in  a  hundred  years.  So 
long!  Awfully  glad  to  have  met  you.  Call  me  up 
sometime,  if  you  ever  get  through." 

He  goes  off  whistling — the  cub!  To  think  that 
you  have  been  a  father  to  that  boy,  and  that  he  leaves 
you  without  a  qualm  in  the  midst  of  all  your  collars ! 
Certainly  the  Custom  House  brings  out  the  worst 
traits  in  human  nature.  You  never  really  know  a 
man  until  you  have  seen  him  at  the  Custom  House. 


262  The  Great  Wet  Way 

It  is  there  that  you  meet  human  frailty,  naked  and 
unashamed. 

The  young  woman  with  whom  you  have  danced 
on  deck,  in  sheer  kindliness  of  heart,  because  nobody 
else  would  dance  with  her — and  she  really  had  no 
idea  of  waltzing — is  unfeeling  and  harsh.  She  comes 
up  and  tells  you  that  she  thought  you  had  gone 
long  ago. 

"  I've  been  through  half  an  hour,"  she  says  gaily, 
"  but  I  kind  of  hate  to  tear  myself  away.  It  is  really 
awful  funny,  isn't  it?  I  watched  an  old  lady  who 
had  sewn  a  new  lace  shawl  in  an  old  petticoat, 
and  she  was  most  humorous.  She  told  the  Custom 
House  inspector  that  she  was  eccentric,  and  always 
lined  her  old  petticoats  with  new  lace  shawls.  Hal 
Ha !  Then  there  was  Mrs.  Snooks,  that  old  hatchet- 
faced  thing,  who  always  looked  at  us  through  im- 
pertinent lorgnettes.  She  had  two  dozen  real  lace 
handkerchiefs  in  a  candy  box,  and  she  informed  the 
inspector  that  she  couldn't  for  the  life  of  her  think 
how  they  had  got  there.  Fun?  No  show  can  com- 
pete with  it.  I'd  like  to  stay  longer,  but  I  must  be 
off  now."  Then,  merrily  to  the  inspector,  who  has 
condemned  all  my  collars,  "Let  him  off  lightly 
please,  mister.  He's  a  good  boy." 

It  is  gruesome.  You  watch  her  tripping  lightly 
away,  casting  a  laughing  jest  at  all  the  sufferers,  and 
then  she  disappears.  You  never  liked  her,  but  you 
hate  to  see  her  go — out — out — into  the  world.  She 


The  Custom  House 


263 


is  really  a  very  horrid  woman,  but  you  need  her  at 
this  moment. 

If  each  passenger  were  locked  in  a  room  with  his 
inspector,  the  Custom  House  ordeal  would  be  far 
less  trying.  The  fact  that  your  earthly  belongings 
are  being  investigated  in  front  of  a  cruel  crowd  is 
the  fact  that  hurts.  Of  course,  this  is  due  to  foolish 
self-consciousness,  but  self-consciousness  is  very  gen- 
eral at  the  end  of  an  ocean  trip. 

"Did  you  declare  this?"  asks  the  inspector  of 
the  luckless  woman,  as  he  holds  up  an  imposing 
bunch  of  false  curls. 

Now,  in  a  room,  alone  with  the  inspector  and  her 
conscience,  this  woman  would  wax  coy  and  coquet- 
tish. She  would  smile  and  be 
rather  winsome.  She  might  even 
crack  a  joke,  or  dig  the  in- 
spector in  the  ribs  and  say,  "  You 
naughty  boy!  "  But  on  the  dock, 
surrounded  by  women,  who  know 
what  false  curls  mean,  because 
they  all  wear  them,  and  by  men 
who  also  know  what  they  mean, 
although  they  don't  wear  them, 
the  wretched  owner  shrinks  into 
her  shell,  and  invents  absurd  ex- 
cuses, good  enough  for  any  farce. 
The  curls  are  not  for  herself,  but 
for  her  housemaid.  Or  some- 


264  The  Great  Wet  Way 

body  has  put  them  in  her  trunk  as  a  practical  joke. 
If  she  asserted  that  they  had  grown  there  during 
the  trip,  nobody  would  be  surprised. 

Women  whose  power  over  men  is  tremendous, 
and  who  might  decide  that  the  Custom  House  in- 
spector was  a  man — although  appearances  argue 
against  it  on  the  dock — cannot  arrive  at  that  de- 
cision before  a  peevish  crowd.  Clever  women  who 
see  the  flaws  in  any  man's  coat  of  armour,  find  that 
their  marvellous  perspicacity  counts  for  nothing  on 
that  dock.  Cold  eyes  are  watching  them;  unsympa- 
thetic glances  chill  their  fervour.  Women  whose 
boast  it  is  that  they  can  wind  any  man  round  their 
little  fingers  are  hopeless  amateurs  in  this  public 
torture  chamber.  All  their  sacred  possessions 
are  rushed  out  and  "assessed"  by  men  who 
could  be  made  to  tremble  at  the  wiles  of  splendid 
coquetry. 

The  New  England  spinster  "  gets  through  "  as  soon 
as  the  immaculate  beauty  with  the  liquid  eyes — in 
fact,  sooner,  for  the  New  England  spinster  prides 
herself  on  travelling  with  nothing  but  a  valise  and 
"  one  suit  of  clothes."  Perhaps  her  face  is  a  further 
guarantee  of  her  extreme  integrity.  She  laughs  at 
all  fripperies  and  foibles.  It  is  just  possible,  of 
course,  bearing  in  mind  the  fact  that  all  Custom 
House  inspectors  are  men — or  were  at  least  born 
masculine — that  they  hurry  her  through  to  get  her 
out  of  the  pretty  picture  as  quickly  as  possibly.  This 


The  Custom  House  265 

may  sound  uncharitable.  The  Custom  House  is  an 
uncharitable  topic. 

Most  people  try  to  make  "personal  hits"  with 
Custom  House  inspectors.  This  is  a  great  mistake. 
If  passengers  will  think  the  matter  over  carefully, 
they  will  realise  that  the  inspectors  have  been  inspect- 
ing for  a  long  time.  No  brand  of  passenger  is 
new,  or  unexpected,  to  the  inspector.  He  has  inves- 
tigated cranks,  and  non-cranks.  In  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  is  not  in  the  least  interested  in  any  pas- 
senger. He  is  not  yearning  for  the  latest  European 
news.  Nor  has  he  dragged  himself  from  his  warm 
bed  to  indulge  in  tea-table  talk  with  pleasant  young 
women.  Of  course,  he  is  a  man,  but  he  is  also  a 
machine.  He  is  not  particularly  fond  of  you — why 
should  he  be? — but  he  is  not  foolish  enough  to  hate 
you.  You  look  upon  him  as  an  enemy;  he  regards 
you  as  his  unpleasant  duty.  You  consider  him  un- 
sympathetic; he  views  you  as  a  nuisance,  because  all 
duty  is  a  nuisance.  All  duty  is  a  fearful  bore;  there- 
fore the  inspector  is  not  overjoyed  to  meet  you.  He 
has  met  people  just  like  you,  and  will  meet  them 
again — perhaps  to-morrow. 

The  Custom  House  inspector  is  prepared  for  all 
emergencies.  He  does  not  court  them,  but  he  waits 
for  them.  You  cannot  delude  him  by  humming  a 
merry  air  when  you  hand  him  your  keys.  You  can- 
not deceive  him  by  opening  all  your  trunks  and 
shrugging  your  shoulders  callously.  You  cannot  in- 


266  The  Great  Wet  Way 

duce  him  to  believe  that  you  love  him  for  himself, 
and  that  you  would  sooner  spend  an  hour  with  a 
Custom  House  inspector  than  with  any  other  per- 
son on  earth.  He  knows.  He  is  on  his  guard.  The 
most  affectionate  passengers  on  the  dock  are  those 
that  hide  a  dutiable  secret. 

Never  appear  to  be  bored.  That  is  a  very  popu- 
lar pose,  but  it  is  played  out.  It  is  very  idiotic.  Any- 
body who  could  be  bored  at  the  Custom  House  in- 
vestigation would  be  bored  by  the  fires  of  Hades. 
So  many  people  assume  nonchalant  airs,  and  these 
are  usually  the  culprits!  Better  to  utter  indignant 
denunciation — which  is  at  least  consistent — or  to  af- 
fect a  reckless,  intoxicated  jollity — which  is  picturesque 
— than  to  appear  bored.  A  human  being  can  be  a 
great  many  things  at  the  Custom  House,  and  usually 
is,  but  he  cannot  be  bored.  It  is  impossible.  Every 
sunbeam  has  its  mote;  every  transatlantic  passen- 
ger has  his  flaw.  It  may  be  no  larger  than  a  collar 
button,  but  he  has  it.  It  is  absurd  to  pretend  that 
you  don't  care  a  hang  what  happens  to  your  trunks 
— those  trunks  are  the  joy  of  your  life.  The  in- 
spector knows  that  they  are  as  dear  to  you  as  your 
flesh  and  blood. 

Never  tell  the  inspector  that  you  have  arranged 
everything  so  that  he  can  see  at  a  glance  what  you 
own — that  your  clothes  are  in  one  drawer,  your  col- 
lars in  another,  and  your  shoes  in  a  third.  Inspect- 
ors do  not  expect  such  delightful  consideration.  Do 


The  Custom  House  267 

not  insist  that  you  bought  a  "  wardrobe  trunk  "  just 
because  it  is  simpler  for  the  inspectors  to  examine. 
They  never  believe  you.  They  are  doubting 
Thomases.  They  listen  to  much  pleasant  fiction,  to 
many  airy  fantasies,  to  splendid  flights  of  exalted 
imagination,  but  they  will  rout  out  your  pet  sins, 
and  ask  for  the  duty  thereon. 

They  are  not  really  bad  men.  Some  of  them  are 
surely  good  to  their  mothers.  They  probably  eat, 
and  drink  at  times,  and  behave  just  like  human  be- 
ings. It  is  also  conceivable  that  they  can  laugh  at 
a  good  joke — but  not  at  the  good  joke  you  tell  them 
as  they  excavate  your  new  hat  from  its  hiding  place. 
They  go  to  bed  at  night,  and  get  up  in  the  morn- 
ing— get  up  at  ungodly  hours,  when  you  insist  upon 
arriving  before  breakfast.  They  are  also  exceed- 
ingly sensible.  They  even  reason,  and  many  of 
them  appear  to  have  studied  the  rules  of  logic. 

People  who  assume  that  Custom  House  inspectors 
have  the  brains  of  a  new-born  babe,  and  a  passion 
for  fairy  stories  that  a  seven-year-old  child  would 
reject  as  far-fetched,  suffer  a  rude  awakening. 

Never  tell  your  Custom  House  inspector,  as  he 
walks  with  you  to  your  trunks,  that  you  are  going 
to  give  a  little  dinner  next  week  to  some  very  dear 
friends,  and  that  you  hope  he  will  be  one  of  the 
merry  throng.  Do  not  ask  him  to  share  your  box 
at  the  opera,  or  beg  him  to  let  you  know  his  wife's 
"  At  Home  "  day,  as  you  want  to  call.  Do  not  try 


268  The  Great  Wet  Way 

to  cheer  him  by  the  tidings  that  you  have  brought  a 
beautiful  meerschaum  pipe  from  Europe  for  him, 
which  you  intend  to  present  him  as  soon  as  you 
have  paid  duty  on  it.  Nothing  doing. 

Do  not  make  frantic  efforts  to  like  the  Custom 
House  inspector.  Love  him  only  as  you  love  all 
your  fellow-creatures,  for  he  1*5  a  fellow-creature. 
There  may  be  times  when  you  would  like  to  qualify 
the  "  fellow "  with  one  good  whopping  adjective, 
and  the  u  creature "  with  another,  but  those  times 
are  only  the  dark  and  melancholy  ones.  It  is  very 
hard  to  love  a  Custom  House  inspector  as  a  fellow- 
creature;  but  it  is  much  harder  to  like  him  as  a  man. 
Do  not  try  it.  You  will  fail,  and  it  will  boot  you 
nothing. 

Be  yourself  at  the  Custom  House  examination. 
Even  if  you  would  sooner  be  each  of  a  dozen  other 
people,  be  yourself — your  blithe,  unaffected,  yet 
practical  self.  If  you  had  to  undergo  some  painful 
surgical  operation  you  would  not  be  insane  enough 
to  tell  the  doctor  that  you  really  enjoyed  it;  you 
would  not  pose  as  bored  in  order  to  deceive  the 
man.  You  might  ask  for  chloroform  or  ether,  and 
personally  I  see  no  reason  why  the  painful  opera- 
tion at  the  Custom  House  should  be  performed 
without  anaesthetics.  It  would  be  easier  for  you 
and  far  simpler  for  the  inspectors.  A  dock  full  of 
chloroformed  passengers,  happily  unconscious  of  all 
the  agony  that  their  poor  trunks  suffer,  would  be  a 


The  Custom  House 


269 


perfectly  consistent  innovation.  You  can  almost 
hear  the  glad  cries  of  the  reawakened  travellers: 

"Is  it  over?     Thank  goodness!" 

"  I  never  felt  it  at  all.     Did  you?  " 

"Am  I  through,  inspector?  Oh,  how  quick  you 
were." 

"  /  rather  liked  the  sensation.  It  is  not  disagree- 
able." 

"  It  didn't  hurt  a  bit.     Can  I  get  up  now?  " 

Many  a  passenger  with  courageous  soul,  who 
will  go  through  appendicitis  unflinchingly,  will  balk 


270  The  Great  Wet  Way 

at  the  Custom  House,  where  no  anaesthetics  are 
used.  Why  inveigh  against  vivisection,  and  coun- 
tenance the  slow  tortures  of  the  Custom  House, 
where  all  men  pose  as  liars — the  best  and  the  worst? 
Why  not  make  it  painless,  and  even  enjoyable? 
Think  of  the  joy  of  awakening  to  learn  that  all  your 
trunks  have  been  opened,  and  are  closed  again;  that 
if  you  have  sinned,  you  have  been  found  out  pain- 
lessly, and  that  if  you  are  a  villain,  nobody  but  the 
inspector  knows  the  extent  of  your  villainy.  Think 
of  all  this  that  might  be,  and  compare  it  with  what  is. 
The  injury  to  tender  consciences  is  irreparable. 
Perhaps  the  very  moustache  on  your  lip  has  been 
grown  abroad,  and  you  are  importing  it.  The 
freckles  on  your  face  have  been  made  in  foreign 
climes,  and  you  are  smuggling  them  in,  free  of  duty. 
The  very  corns  on  your  feet  are  the  result  of  pranc- 
ing around  foreign  roads,  and  you  do  not  "declare  " 
them.  Yet  the  Custom  House  rules  are  very  strict. 
They  are  relentless.  They  contain  no  loophole. 
There  is  no  reason  on  earth  why  you  should  not  pay 
duty  on  increased  avoirdupois  obtained  abroad  by 
foreign  products.  All  these  thoughts  hurt  a  pious 
man.  He  wishes  to  do  his  duty  by  his  country;  he 
abominates  the  idea  of  wrong;  it  is  quite  repulsive 
to  him.  What  passenger,  who  has  declared  every- 
thing, does  not  feel  that  he  should  have  declared 
everything  else?  There  are  sins  of  omission,  as 
well  as  sins  of  commission.  Many  passengers  com- 


The  Custom  House 


271 


mit;  many  more  omit.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  every 
returning  American  passenger  should  pay  duty  on 
himself.  He  is  not  quite  the  same  as  when  he  left. 
The  difference  is,  of  course,  foreign.  Why  should 
he  bring  home  that  difference?  What  right  has 
he  to  leave  it  undeclared?  Suppose  that  a  bad  man 
goes  to  Europe  without  a  conscience,  and  comes  back 
with  one — why  should  the  United  States  let  it  in? 
Why  should  a  foreign  conscience  be  allowed  full 
sway  here? 

The  Custom  House  is  full  of  subtleties.  The 
more  one  hunts,  the  more  subtleties  one  finds.  Per- 
haps it  is  just  as  well  to  let  it  alone.  Let  sleeping 
dogs  lie,  and  let  transatlantic  passengers — lie,  too. 
The  former  will  do  it  in  one  way,  and  the  latter  in 
another. 


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